


The Statue

by ERS



Category: Original Work
Genre: Don't believe all the warnings, Historical References, M/M, Master/Slave, Original Slash, Posted Elsewhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:49:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 42
Words: 125,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24664897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ERS/pseuds/ERS
Summary: Obsessed with his slave Formosus, Roman nobleman Quintus Aelius Aurelius undertakes to have his lover's form immortalised in stone. But Formosus is not as cold and unyieldling as his marble image, and the statue is only finished after Formosus has completed a long and arduous journey.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

Quintus Aelius Aurelius sighed. He was bored, civilian life disagreed with him, but he had no stomach for the military any more either. The endless discussions in the Senate irritated him, and his wife Camilla did nothing but complain. She was still childless, and although she would never dare to critise her husband out loud, he knew she blamed him and his blatant lack of enthusiasm for sharing her bed. The main reason for his lack of enthusiasm was carefully dusting and replacing the scrolls of Quintus' private library in their boxes. The tall, lean figure was bent over, face hidden by bright, thick and unruly hair.

“Formosus, come here,” Quintus ordered. The slave put down the scroll he had been handling, turned to look at his master and obediently walked to his side. Quintus caressed the long thigh which was just in reach of his hand. “Formosus, are you happy?” The slave lifted his demurely lowered eyes to flash a look at Quintus.

“I don't know, master,” the slave responded in a soft voice. Quintus slapped his thigh playfully.

“Come now, Formosus, you must know whether you are happy or not,” he insisted. The slave flashed him another look. Quintus loved his eyes, greeny-golden and long-lashed; gentle eyes.

“I'm a slave,” Formosus responded, “it is my duty to make my master happy.” Quintus smiled briefly. He had heard a definite note of sarcasm in Formosus' voice. He knew it was his own fault because he indulged his slave, but Formosus was closer to him than anybody else he supposed, he had taught the slave to read and write, had nursed him through illness and he shared his bed more often than not with him, and had for the past ten years. Quintus frequently overlooked Formosus' little acts of rebellion. He knew that deep down, he could trust Formosus like no one else.

“Sit,” Quintus demanded, patting the bench he was sitting on to encourage the slave to take a seat next to him. Formosus obliged with an air of long-suffering; he was familiar with his master's more pensive moods. Quintus pressed a brief kiss to the slave's long neck and slid a hand over his chest, feeling the hard, defined chest muscles under the thin fabric of Formosus' tunica. “Do you still think of your home?” he asked.  
“I hardly remember it, Master,” the slave answered, and Quintus knew he was lying. He still heard Formosus cry in his sleep, call strange-sounding names and chant strange words. Quintus reached up and stroked the man's thick, chestnut hair, it was the closest he would ever come to apologising.

*

It had been on one of their campaigns in Britannia, fighting the Iceni uprising, a cruel, merciless conflict that left Quintus feeling empty and bitter. They killed the rebels on sight, men, women and children, and only a few were captured to be taken back to Rome as spoils of war. Quintus had been in his tent when he heard cries of anguish amid the laughter and shouts of his own soldiers. When he went outside, he saw a youth, tall and thin as a colt or a young deer, skin glowing golden in the fire, trying to hide his nakedness while the men hooted and grabbed at him, their intent only all too clear. The boy's beautiful face was stricken with fear, he couldn't be older than fourteen, Quintus guessed. When they realised that their commander was in their midst, the men fell silent and the boy looked at him with his huge, greeny-golden eyes. That's when Quintus made a split-second decision.

“This one is not for you,” he said, taking hold of the boy's wrist and pulling him away from the men, “and I will have no more gratuitous violence. There has been enough bloodshed for now.” He dragged the boy behind him into the tent.

At first Quintus stared at the boy, unsure of the emotions that had been stirred inside him. The Iceni youth was beautiful, and Quintus was attracted to his own sex. Romans indulged freely in homosexual relationships, and only distinguished between dominant and submissive roles; as an aristocrat Quintus would never allow penetration, but it was pefectly acceptable for him to penetrate another man. The Romans also had a predilection for the very young, also quite acceptable in Roman society. Furthermore, although Roman soldiers were expected to show restraint in sexual and other matters, war rape of males and females was commonplace and not considered contradictory. The boy was a captive, destined for slavery in far off Rome, Quintus could by rights do whatever he pleased with the boy. But it wasn't just lust that stirred him. Looking into those large, luminous eyes, Quintus, himself still a very young man of barely twenty-two, felt pity move his heart.  
“You are very beautiful,” he told the boy, “formosus.”

“Formosus,” the boy repeated, the first word Quintus heard him utter, and that became the name Quintus called him.

Quintus didn't touch him that first night, he made him sleep in the bed next to him, ordering an extra guard to position himself outside the tent, but the captive only cried himself to sleep and when Quintus awoke the next morning, the youth was still asleep next to him, his pale face still tear-stained and his chestnut hair in wild disarray. Their work done, Quintus and his men quickly packed up and got ready to march. The boy protested briefly then, struggling with Quintus and crying, but Quintus lifted him onto his horse and had the boy ride before him, and he soon stopped his snivelling to resign himself to his fate. The youth was already nearly as tall as Quintus himself, who was considered tall for a Roman, and Quintus could see from the size of his long, narrow feet and hands that he had not yet reached his full height. Formosus was very long-limbed, something he did not grow out of, Quintus had never seen anyone with such long, straight legs. He was also one of the tallest men Quintus knew, tall even for a Celt.  
When they stopped to rest, Quintus kept the young Celt guarded in his tent for fear that the youngster would try to escape. The boy was obviously confused as to why Quintus was keeping him with him. The other captives knew they were being marched towards Rome where they would be sold as slaves, the boy didn't seem to know why he had been singled out. He didn't appear to be afraid of Quintus, indeed Quintus could feel him press close when any of the other men came near them, but he would stare at Quintus with a puzzled look on his face as if wondering why the man had saved him and what he wanted of him. Quintus let his eyes wander over the young man's smooth, golden skin, long straight limbs and handsome face. The boy had a profile like a Grecian statue. The first muscles were developing on his body, Quintus had no taste for soft, effeminate boys, he could have a girl if he wanted that. This boy would grow into a beautiful specimen of manhood and Quintus desired him. But he also saw the intelligence and sensitivity in the boy's eyes; he was unable to see the Celt purely as a slave to be used for his pleasure. The boy had a family that he had lost, he was alone and afraid, all these thing Quintus felt and sympathised with. Not enough, of course, to let his prize go. But enough to make him want to be gentle and kind.  
On the boat travelling from the coast of Cantiaci to Gaul, the boy was violently sick. It was a choppy sea, and Quintus stood for hours on deck, holding the youth's head while he retched until he brought up nothing but bile. When they set up camp in Gaul, Quintus slept with his captive cradled in his arms. The soldiers had begun to whisper, Quintus heard them talk among themselves about Druids, spells and love-potions. He still hadn't so much as kissed the boy's plump lips, even though he leaned into the touch when Quintus caressed his unruly, golden-brown hair and long, lean back.  
The march through Gaul and Germania was exhausting, always on the look-out for an ambush, and Formosus, as Quintus now called the Celt, sagged tiredly in the saddle in front of his captor. The boy was obviously no farmer, nor was he a soldier; his hands were soft and despite the muscles on torso, arms and thighs, Quintus was sure he was unused to manual labour. He was either of noble birth among his people, or he was one of the few selected to become druids and the men were right, perhaps he had cast a spell on the Roman.  
One cold night in the tent, they were in the middle of Germania in a dark, chill forest, Quintus could hold back no more. He rolled onto Formosus, effectively pinning him to the makeshift bed, and devoured his lips. The slave stiffened and froze, Quintus expected him to struggle and cry, but instead he began to kiss Quintus back, tentatively at first, then with enthusiasm.  
Quintus kissed him harder, and the slave bucked up against him, groaning wantonly. Sliding his hands up under the tunica Formosus was wearing, Quintus pushed down his underwear and gently reached between the Celt's legs. He almost pulled his hand away in surprise. The coltish youngster was the proud owner of a penis that more than matched Quintus' own large, thick organ. As the captive had shielded himself from view when Quintus found him, naked and shivering, he had not had a chance to see what the Celt was hiding between his legs. And the boy was not yet fully grown.  
Formosus did not seem alarmed by Quintus' ministrations, instead he pushed into the man's hand and whimpered.  
“Shh,” Quintus soothed, stroking gently. Formosus snuggled up to the Roman and pressed himself close to the other man. Quintus could feel his shaggy, golden-brown hair tickling his neck and shoulders. He kissed the Celt again and felt his kiss returned with urgency. Quintus cupped Formosus' balls and resumed stroking. With a sigh, the young man came, covering his stomach and the toga, which was pulled up above his waist, shuddering in Quintus arms. Then he lay still, breathing heavily with his eyes closed. Quintus just let him lay there for a moment, watching the boy's face. It was a picture of satisfaction and Quintus felt a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The boy's golden and green eyes flicked open, he looked at the Roman's face wonderingly, then returned the smile.

Quintus took hold of the boy's hand and pushed it towards his own engorged organ, but the Celt pulled his hand free of Quintus' guidance and reached down between the Roman's legs of his own accord. He pushed his hand inside Quintus underwear and began to touch the other man's penis, carefully at first, then with growing confidence. The boy had either done this before, or he was a natural. It didn't take long before Quintus came with a shout. Coming down, feeling completely relaxed and with the smooth, warm body of his slave in his arms, Quintus could hardly believe his luck. Not only did the boy have all the promise of growing into an unusually handsome and attractive man, he was also willing and gifted in bed. Quintus felt a surge of emotion. He was inordinately grateful that he had not had to force the youngster. He had felt protective towards Formosus since he saw him first, shivering and scared, and he had no wish to hurt or frighten him any more.  
*

“Am I happy?” Formosus thought to himself, “have I forgotten how to listen to the beating of my own heart?” He had been a slave almost as long as he had been free, he had been captive all his adult life. He had no business indulging in wishes that would never be fulfilled, and no need to listen to the whisperings of his own heart.

“Do you want to go back to Britannia?” Master asked gently, still caressing his chest.

“No, Master,” he answered glibly, he couldn't bother to think about whether he really wished to see the damp, green woods, the thrashing sea again; the place where he grew up.

“Formosus,” Master told him sternly, lifting his chin and turning his head so that he was forced to look into the Roman's dark eyes, “tell me, do you really never want to see your home again?” Formosus stared back at the man who had saved him, cared for him, loved him, but who also owned him, like an animal.

“Home is where you are, Master,” Formosus said, and this time it was neither glib, nor a lie.

“Such a flatterer, you are,” Master murmured and buried his head against Formosus' neck, but the slave could feel his smile against his skin. Master knew very well when Formosus was telling the truth.

Because although he was not a free man, although he was in no way his Master's equal, although he was his Master's possession and neither his friend nor his lover, because, however often they shared their thoughts or a bed, one of them would always be slave to the other's master; what he felt for his Master was, Formosus supposed, love, of a kind. He loved his Master's strong hands on his skin, he loved to lie in bed with his Master, he loved to read to him and be read to, he loved it when his Master taught him Greek, and how to use a sword, and even when Master spoke sharply to him. Formosus loved the way his dark eyes flashed and his curved lips pursed angrily. He loved the way the Roman pushed an angry hand through his tight, dark curls and growled. He loved the way his Master's muscled body would grow taut with rage and he would stare him, the tall, long-limbed Celt, down by the sheer force of his personality.  
“Master knows how I feel,” Formosus murmured, and in response he felt the hand on his chin guide his lips to press against his Master's mouth.

“I wish to talk to you, husband,” Camilla's voice cut through the silence, neither if them had heard her come into the library, “send the creature away.” She waved a hand at Formosus.  
“Formosus is not a creature,” Master answered in a low, dangerous tone, “and I will speak to you when I am ready.” Camilla stood staring at Master's hands, stroking through Formosus' thick, chestnut hair.

“ He keeps you away from my bedchamber,” Camilla hissed angrily, then her expression was sly. “He won't bear you a son and heir, however much you wish it, though.” Formosus felt Master flinch next to him. But when he spoke, his voice was steady and calm.

“Then maybe I will have to do without,” Master replied with a smile, “my sister's boy is a strong, intelligent lad and eight years old already, I'm sure he would make an adequate heir. And now leave me. I would warm my hands on Formosus skin, your coldness chills me to the bone.” Formosus kept his eyes down.

If his Master knew, Formosus thought, how often Camilla had begged him to visit her in her bed chamber, how often she had cornered him in the empty kitchen, placed her hand between his legs and tried to reach her lips up to his, if Master knew this he would throw his wife out in disgrace. But Formosus kept his mouth shut and himself out of Camilla's way, he knew better than to rock the boat or incur Master's jealousy. He was only a slave, after all.  
Master lay on the bed, idly playing with himself while he watched Formosus disrobe.  
“I should have a statue made of you,” he said, as he had said many times before, “I should have it put in Camilla's bedchamber so that I can stare at it when I lay with her. It might make the job less tedious.”

“Yes, Master,” Formosus murmured, standing still so that the Roman could let his gaze travel over his uncovered body. The words came out like a sigh of irritation, Formosus sometimes forgot himself like that. But Master was far too wrapped up in his ideas to comment.

“Your body is perfect,” Master continued, “your lips, your hair, your eyes, your profile. Beautiful. Formosus.”

“Thank you, Master.” A tiny eyeroll. That didn't escape Master's attention.

“You are disrespectful, Formosus,” Master said lazily, “I should whip you.”

“Yes, Master,” Formosus agreed. Master had never whipped him before, and likely never would.

“But I prefer to fuck you,” Master said, “te pedico. No. Futuo,” he corrected, substituting the gentler verb. “Come here. Get on your knees and elbows.”

Formosus complied, he prefered to be face to face with his Master, but the Roman liked to assert his dominance by mounting his slave. Formosus didn't mind. He always craved his Master's touch, whether harsh or gentle. Master used two fingers to test that Formosus was sufficiently prepared; he always was. Then he pushed inside carefully. Master never fucked; he always made love.


	2. Chapter 2

“Pathicus,” Marcus Tullius Severinus swore under his breath. When his father, a successful sculptor, had been commissioned by the rich and respected senator Quintus Aelius Aurelius to create a life-size statue, Marcus Tullius had been itching to start work. He was a very young man, but already showed great artistic promise. He had stayed in Greece for a year to learn from the best sculptors in Athens, and his work remodelling the statue of the late, but not lamented, emperor Nero and decorating the the new Flavian Amphitheatre had been widely praised. Quintus Aelius wanted a marble statue of his favourite, a beautiful Celtic slave who by all accounts had besotted the Senator and turned him into a love-sick maiden. Not that anyone would say that to Quintus Aelius' face. Love-sick maiden or not, Quintus Aelius was a veteran of the campaigns in Britannia, a tall, fierce, handsome man with strong arms and shoulders and a proud, fearless heart. He was also very touchy on the subject of his favourite slave.  
Marcus Tullius looked up from the clay he was forming the model for the statue from. His father would join him for the later stages of the work; at the moment he was alone with Quintus Aelius' favourite slave. What he had heard was true enough; the man standing opposite him, the sun illuminating him from behind and bathing him in a golden glow, looked like a God who had stepped down from Mount Olympus.  
“Your arm,” Marcus Tullius cautioned. The slave ignored him. Sighing, the sculptor threw the wet clay down onto his work bench and went over to where the slave was standing. His hand still smeared with wet clay, he reached out and adjusted the man's arm none too gently. He was angry, not just because the slave ignored his commands, not just because he purposely conspired not to hold the pose Marcus Tullius had arranged him in, not only because he had to throw down the wet clay he was moulding only to pick it up a few seconds later, but because when he got close to the man, the smell of his skin and the heat radiating from his body made Marcus Tullius shake and sweat with lust. He hated having to be close to the Celt, and he knew that the other man was purposely taunting him.

The slave behaved for a while, and Marcus Tullius concentrated on the clay model he was forming. From time to time he looked at the block of purest creamy-white marble to draw inspiration from its form.  
“You are young, for an artist.” The slave's voice was gentle, but his tone was mocking.

“And you are insolent, for a slave,” Marcus Tullius retorted, “I need you to take your clothes off,” he continued, willing his voice not to tremble.

“I can't do that,” the slave sighed, “not without Master present.” Marcus Tullius felt a headache building at the base of his skull.

“Then go and fetch your Master,” he gritted.

“I don't know where he is,” the slave argued.

“Then find him,” Marcus Tullius insisted, adding “Catamitus,” under his breath. The slave raised his eyebrows and left.

Marcus Tullius had been cooped up with the recalcitrant slave all morning with hardly anything to show for it. Quintus Aelius had insisted that the work be done in his own home, and had set aside rooms for the sculptors to work and live in for the duration of the enterprise. When the senator had ushered his slave into the room that morning, Marcus Tullius already had an inkling that his he would have his work cut out for him. Without being outright rebellious, the slave managed to convey as eloquently as if he had said it that he had made plans to spend his morning, and that posing as a model for his master's whimsical project was not among them. Keeping his eyes demurely lowered behind his long eyelashes, he nonetheless managed to shoot Marcus Tullius a venomous look as if hoping to dissuade the sculptor from undertaking the task of representing him in marble. Given that the slave was very obviously vain, proud and arrogant, Marcus Tullius thought that having a statue made of his admittedly very beautiful form would appeal to the wayward Celt, but apparently he was wrong. The subject of his artistic endeavours did everything in his power to disrupt the sculptor's progress. He sighed, scratched his nose, moved his position, swatted at imaginary flies, went to get a drink of water, and when he discovered that Marcus Tullius was unnerved by his proximity, he did his level best to force the sculptor to come close to him as often as he could. Marcus Tullius was only twenty-three, he was completely overwhelmed by the devious manipulations enacted by the senator's favourite. He had also never encountered a slave so lacking in proper humility and fear of his betters. The young man imagined giving the disobedient slave a thorough whipping, something he definitely deserved, but the thought only made him breathless and hot. The Gods only knew how he was going to get through hours of staring at the man's naked body.  
Quintus Aelius entered the room, trailed by the slave, who had rolled his lips into his mouth and was sucking them primly.  
“You need him to disrobe?” Quintus Aelius enquired.

“I was led to understand that the statue would be of the subject's naked form,” Marcus Tullius explained with a hint of annoyance, “hence the necessity of having him disrobe.”

“But you are only making the clay model, surely?” Quintus Aelius insisted.

“Which we shall use to work from,” Marcus Tullius explained, “so that the subject does not have to be present all the time.” Which will be a relief, he thought to himself.

“Formosus,” the Senator addressed the slave, “your clothes.”

“Yes Master,” the slave answered quietly and began to unclasp his tunica. Marcus Tullius felt the heat rise into his face, and he began to fumble with his tools to distract himself.

“Now stand still and do as Marcus Tullius commands,” the senator ordered.

“Master,” the slave said plaintively, as if in protest.

“You will do as you are told, Formosus,” Quintus Aelius said firmly.

“Yes, Master,” the Celt answered, resignation in his voice.

“I shall be close by,” Quintus Aelius added, and the sculptor wasn't sure whether he was reassuring or threatening one or both of them.

When Marcus Tullius felt calm enough to look up and take in the sight before him, he found it hard to tear his eyes away again. The slave didn't speak, but he radiated scorn.  
“Would you turn, please, slowly.” Marcus Tullius willed his voice to be steady. There it was again. The tiniest little eye-roll. The slave should be flogged within an inch of his life, Marcus Tullius thought resentfully to himself, he should be sent to the country to be worked day and night on the land until he drops; with his long legs and the muscles on his arms he should do a hard day's work instead of purring around his master like a long, lean, golden cat. That would teach him his place. “Now stand still, your arm in the position I put it in before,” Marcus Tullius continued when the slave was facing him again. The slave stuck his arm out to his side gracelessly. “Not like that,” the sculptor scolded, “bend your elbow.” The slave promptly turned his arm the wrong way. “By the Gods,” the sculptor muttered, stomping over to his model, grabbing his arm and twisting it in place. When he looked up he caught the man's eyes looking down at him, and paused. They were a beautiful golden colour with a hint of dark green, but that wasn't what held his attention. There was something in their depths, questioning, unsure and sad, just a fleeting impression and then it was gone, replaced by blankness.

Marcus Tullius worked for two hours in silence, and the slave didn't move a muscle. Quintus Aelius opened the door several times to check on them, but did not disturb them further. The sculptor managed to detach himself from his own carnal urges enough to appreciate the beauty of the subject before him without being distracted from his work. The man was perfect in his way, a tall God, the embodiment of male beauty. If he could capture the perfect lines of that body, the long, muscled thighs, the swell of the buttocks, the strong arms; the statue would be perfect. A pity that he would not be able to represent the man's penis as it deserved, it was very large and straight. The Grecian style favoured by the Romans required that the male organs of naked statues be kept small and inconspicuous. The sculptor found himself wondering how large the slave's member might grow when aroused. He was so lost in his creation that he jumped when the slave coughed quietly. He looked up to find the man staring at him intensely.  
“If you are tired,” he said, “we can stop for today. You've done very well.” The slave shot him a cold look, turned wordlessly and left the room, not bothering to dress. His tunica was left, discarded on the floor.

“Pathicus,” Marcus Tullius growled after his receding form.

*

Formosus woke in a cold sweat, heart pounding with fear. He had the same dream over and over again. In his dream, he could feel the man's fat, flabby hands all over his skin. He could feel the chains around his wrists biting into the flesh as he struggled in vain to get free. Strong hands pried his thighs apart while he screamed in fear. He was slapped so hard he saw stars, blood trickled down his forehead into his eyes. He pleaded until he was hoarse. Fat, oily fingers entered him roughly, stretching him, preparing him to be violated. When he was penetrated in one hard push by a penis, short and fat like its owner, he could not even shriek in pain because he had already screamed his voice away. He opened his mouth, but only a croak came out between his chapped and bleeding lips. The pain almost seemed real. Opening his eyes, he could barely believe that he was lying in bed beside his master, who was leaning worriedly over him.

“You called out, Formosus,” Master said.

“I'm sorry, Master,” he answered, trying to turn his face away. Master held his chin and began to wipe away the tears with the corner of the cover.

“A nightmare, again?” Master asked. Formosus nodded. Master stroked his hair. “Go back to sleep, there is nothing to harm you here.”

“Yes, Master,” Formosus agreed. He closed his eyes and pretended to go back to sleep. Very soon, cold rage took the place of fear. I will never ever forgive you for that, he thought to himself, never.

“You will tell me,” Quintus Aelius said coldly, “what your objection to fulfilling my wish is.”  
“I have no objection, Master,” Formosus said quietly.

“Is it the sculptor, Marcus Tullius, who for some reason arouses your displeasure?” the senator insisted, his eyes boring into those of his slave.

“Master, I would never allow myself to feel displeasure,” Formosus hurried to answer.

“Tell me, has he insulted you? Angered you?” Quintus Aelius softened his tone. Formosus blinked. Truthfully, it was the other way round.

“It is not my place to judge a Roman citizen...” Formosus began formally.

“Speak!” Quintus Aelius shouted.

“He is perfectly agreeable,” Formosus mumbled, looking at the floor.

“Then what,” he grabbed hold of the slave's arm and shook him lightly, “is the reason for the sulking, scowling frown that mars your lovely face whenever you are required to model for my statue? You know full well that I have set my heart on this enterprise. You should be flattered.”

“Yes, Master, I am flattered,” Formosus answered perfunctorily.

“You have many skills,” Quintus Aelius sighed, loosening his grip on the Celt's arm, “but acting is not one of them.”

“No, Master,” Formosus admitted. Quintus Aelius reached over and threaded his fingers through the slave's thick hair.

“You are so beautiful,” the Senator enthused, “your beauty deserves to be consigned to eternity.” Formosus clenched his hands and his jaw until his teeth began to ache.

“Because beauty does not last forever,” Formosus said flatly.

“But the statue will,” Quintus Aelius proclaimed, lost in his own fantasy again, “it will outlast all our little lives.” Formosus lowered his eyes. There was a weight on his chest as heavy as if he had swallowed a handful of marble chippings.

Formosus had nothing against the sculptor, in fact he rather liked him. He liked the fact that the man reacted to him rather than treated him like a commodity as most other visitors to his Master's house did. He stared at him, he blushed, he sweated and trembled when he touched him, and he was obviously annoyed by his stalling tactics. Formosus had nothing at all against the sculptor, who looked more like a boy than a man, and who, despite the fact that he had muscular arms from working with stone, had a charmingly slight and youthful figure. Apart from that, Formosus liked his eyes, which were grey and deep. He was fascinated by the way the sculptor was able to translate what he saw with his eyes to what he formed with his hands. If the thought of the statue the young man was to make of him didn't fill him so full of dread, posing for the sculptor might have been a welcome distraction for Formosus. But things being as they were, the slave was unhappier than he had been for a long while. Are you happy? The question his master had asked just weeks ago echoed scornfully in his head.  
He knew the sculptor thought he was a spoiled, vain lap-dog; he could see it in his eyes and hear it in the insults the man muttered under his breath. Why should he assume that there was more to Formosus' antics than just the wilful contrariness of a cosseted favourite? The sculptor didn't know him, and never would. What did it matter? Formosus was only a slave, and his life was worth nothing. He was nothing more than the sum of his assets, and they would be fading fast, the older he got. He looked out of the window into the sky, not allowing himself to cry, he must never give way to that or any other weakness.  
Subdued, he walked into the room where the sculptor was already busying himself with his tools and unwrapping the wet cloth from around the clay. The model was nearly finished, then work on the statue would begin. The sculptor's father would join his son, and several Greek workmen. He wouldn't be alone with the sculptor any more, in fact he would hardly be needed at all. The shape of things to come; an unlucky omen. Master followed him into the room and at a nod, Formosus let his clothing fall to the ground. Master watched for a while as the sculptor worked quietly, then he left. The sculptor looked up and stopped working. Formosus adjusted his arm, he was sure he hadn't moved.  
“What is wrong with you?” the young man asked.

“Wrong?” Formosus echoed, surprised.

“You're so quiet,” the sculptor smiled, “and well-behaved.” Formosus snorted.

“Don't you prefer me like this?” the slave asked archly. The sculptor continued to look at him.

“No,” the sculptor said slowly, “you look sad. Do you want to tell me why you are unhappy?” Formosus opened his mouth, then shut it again. Then he dropped his eyes.

“It is not my place,” he murmured, “I am a slave. I have no feelings either way.” The sculptor moved around his work bench and came closer.

“Don't give me that,” he scolded, “you haven't known your place as a slave all the time I have been working here, and you don't have to pretend you do now. Something about the statue unsettles you, I am sure of it. That is why you have been behaving like a spoilt child. Surely it is a sign of your master's great regard for you that he is having a statue made of you? Why are you so set against this?”

“It is not my place...” Formosus began sulkily, but the sculptor set a hand against his chest and pushed him back against the wall behind him with surprising strength. Pinning him there with his hand, the shorter Roman frowned at the tall slave.

“I can't work with you like this,” he growled, “speak to me.” Formosus licked his lips nervously. There was something strangely erotic about the situation, he was pinned with his back to the wall, stark naked, the other man's hand pressed against his chest. Only then did it seem to dawn on the sculptor that he was only inches away from a beautiful, naked man who he was holding pressed against the wall, and who was licking his red, plump lips in what appeared to be an invitation. He pulled his hand away as if Formosus' skin had burned him, perhaps it had, and retired behind his work bench. Formosus would have been amused by the flush on the young man's cheeks if he hadn't been feeling a little breathless himself. If Master found out that the sculptor had touched him like that under his own roof, he would have the man killed on the spot, Formosus was sure of it.


	3. Chapter 3

Quintus Aelius knew very little of his slave's past. As far as he was concerned, the boy's life had begun on that evening in the eastern reaches of Britannia when he whisked the Celt away from the fireside and a fate worse than death. It wasn't that he had no interest in Formosus' origins; he would have loved to have known whether the slave had been destined to be a young prince, a druid or a swineherd. It was a feeling of apprehension about broaching the subject that had always stopped him. When he had asked the slave if he missed the country of his birth, he was relieved that Formosus had pretended that he had forgotten about his native land, even if Quintus Aelius knew it wasn't true.

At first the Roman had avoided the subject because he was afraid the boy would grow unduly homesick if his birth place and parentage were discussed. Later it became second nature to the Senator to avoid mentioning anything to do with Britannia lest it upset the boy. The Iceni had been mercilessly destroyed and punished for their insubordination. It was unlikely that any of the slave's kinsmen had survived. Formosus certainly knew that, he was an intelligent lad who learned Latin frighteningly quickly and who also grasped the basics of Greek within weeks. As he hardly ever left the Senator's side, Formosus listened to conversations about politics and the issues of the day, and was probably as well informed as any of the members of the Senate, and possibly cleverer than most. He was certainly clever enough to never offer an opinion on anything, unless Quintus Aelius pressed him for it urgently.  
The Senator knew that people mocked him behind his back for what they perceived as his soft heart in regards to the Celt. Quintus Aelius didn't care. He had helped to overthrow Nero, and the new Emperor Vespasian, once leader of the campaign against Britannia, was well-disposed towards his fellow veteran. Quintus Aelius could fell a man with a single blow, had enough money to ruin all but the very rich and had enough political clout to get his way in most debates. He wasn't afraid of anyone, and no one was brave enough to call him soft-hearted to his face.  
From the first moment that he had set eyes on the boy he had felt something alien stir his breast. It was not just the boy's looks, and he had surpassed all expectations by growing into the most beautiful man Quintus Aelius had ever seen; it was his quick intelligence and his deep nature that fascinated the Senator most. There was no looking into Formosus' heart or mind, there was a dark, bottomless pit inside him that the Roman could not fathom.  
Quintus Aelius knew that the slave's strange and shifting disposition had nothing to do with his Celtic origins. Titus Cassius, an acquaintance and fellow senator, also had a slave from Britannia named Junius, and apart from the fact that he was an extraordinarily pretty male, which was not surprising since he had been chosen for that feature, he was nothing like Formosus in character, being a frivolous, charming, intelligent but rather shallow young man. Junius had his master wrapped around his finger in a manner that Formosus would never even attempt, and Quintus Aelius was fairly sure that half the babies born to the prettiest slave girls in Rome were Junius' issue.  
It was also the urge to protect Formosus from harm that set the Senator's feelings for the slave apart. Whether it had been the sight of him, fearful and shivering on that fateful night, that inspired him to want to keep the slave safe, or whether the younger man had been the inadvertent recipient of feelings Quintus Aelius would have bestowed on a son if he had one, the Senator himself did not know. He had not always been able to keep Formosus safe, a fact that was a source of constant torment to him as well as to the slave. Once, just once his vigilance had slipped, and both he and Formosus had to bear the consequences to that day. Sometimes he even suspected that the slave blamed him, deep down, for what had happened to him. Formosus could be as unfathomable and cold as he could be warm and affectionate. There were even occasions on which Quintus Aelius almost feared him, but whatever else he felt, Quintus Aelius loved Formosus as deeply as a human could possibly love another when the two were not equals. But he didn't know whether Formosus understood that.  
*

Just when Marcus Tullius had opened his mouth to beg the slave not to tell his master what had happened, the Celt spoke. He seemed strangely unaware that he was naked.

“Vedius Pollio,” he said quietly, “you have heard of him?” The sculptor stared at him.

“Yes, I have heard of him. A rich landowner, known for his cruelty and malice. What of him?”

“When his slaves become old and useless, he turns them out to die. Sometimes he kills them. He had a slave named Darius, I knew him. He was thrown into a fish pond to drown and serve as food for the fish.”

“He is an evil man, everyone is agreed on that,” Marcus Tullius answered, wondering why the slave was telling him that.

“An evil man, yes,” the slave's quiet voice continued, “but nobody stops him, nobody tells him he cannot turn out his slaves to die, or murder them when he grows tired of them.”

“Legally, he may be within his rights,” the sculptor explained, “but morally...”

“No one cares about morals in Rome,” the slave said darkly. Marcus Tullius looked up and met the other man's eyes.

“I am sorry,” he said, “sorry you are a slave and without the rights of a free man, I understand how that must irk you. But your master would never hurt you, and I am sure he will protect you until the end. Most probably he will arrange for you to be set free after his death. You have nothing to fear. Is that what is worrying you?”

“Nothing to fear?” The slave shook his head. “Master is obsessed with one thing and one thing only: My looks. He plans to have this thing made in my image, he will measure the passing of time and the fading of my beauty every day by comparing me to the statue. It is all he cares about. When I grow older and lose my looks he will discard me, sell me perhaps to someone like Vedius Pollio, or turn me out on the streets.”

“You cannot seriously believe that?” Marcus Tullius resisted the urge to go over to the slave and shake him by the shoulders. Could he possibly be so blind? Was this the reason the slave was so opposed to the statue?

“He talks of nothing else,” the slave retorted, “Formosus, you are so beautiful, I must capture your beauty forever, the statue will still be beautiful when you are long dead ... I am twenty-four, or so Master says, I do not know exactly. I shall soon be past my prime.”

“You are wrong,” Marcus Tullius looked at the other man steadily, “on two counts. I am an artist and experienced in assessing the human form. I can tell you that although you will grow older, as we all do, you will never lose your looks. I see the bones under your skin and flesh, and they are beautiful. You are a beautiful young man, you will be beautiful in ten years time, and you will still be beautiful when others are old crones and vultures. Some people are blessed by the Gods like that, you are one of the lucky ones. Perhaps Venus was your grandmother.” Marcus Tullius smiled. He could see he had made an impression of some sort on the slave.

“And secondly?” Formosus asked.

“And secondly, you do not know your master if you really believe that he loves you solely for your looks. When he came to my father to explain his project, he hardly mentioned your looks, so busy was he extolling your virtues and praising your intelligence. I know, for instance, that you speak Greek and also help your master with his business matters. You play the lyre and do his accounts.You ride a horse and can use a sword. All this your master told my father. You are extremely accomplished, and I cannot believe that, even if you don't realise that your master truly values you for much more than your looks, you think him so bad a business man that you imagine he would invest so heavily in you if he intended to discard you at the first sign of a grey hair.”

“All the better to sell me,” Formosus muttered, “and to get a good price.”

“Perhaps you should speak to your master,” Marcus Tullius suggested, “and tell him what you fear.”

“He would only shout at me,” Formosus said sulkily.

Marcus Tullius couldn't really blame Quintus Aelius for occasionally shouting at his slave. The man was stubborn and opinionated. But the sculptor could understand the slave's fears. He had always taken slaves for granted, he had never thought about their feelings, never even assumed that they had any. But to actually hear a man who was himself a slave speak of the horrors endured by his fellows shocked the young man. The slave was almost the same age as he himself, and although his master obviously cared for him, he lived with the constant knowledge that he was nothing but a possession, to be discarded as soon as he became useless.  
“If your master really sells you,” Marcus Tullius said mischievously, “I will buy you myself. You can annoy me all day and keep me on my toes. That will ensure that I don't become fat and complacent.” A boyish smile of amusement broke out on the slave's face, like the sun through the clouds. He looked suddenly younger, almost childlike. “You have a lovely smile,” the sculptor said, “ a pity you don't show it more often.” Predictably, the slave rolled his eyes, but the smile stayed where it was.

*

“So,” the pretty man with the light brown hair said to Formosus with a smile, “your master is having a statue made of you. You must be very pleased with yourself.” Formosus grumbled something incomprehensible. The other man looked up from his nails, which he had been idly picking, and fixed his soulful, green-blue eyes on him. Junius always looked as though he was thinking deep, meaningful thoughts; in reality he was mostly thinking of girls he wanted to bed. “What is your quarrel with your master's intent?“ He asked shrewdly.

“I suppose that I resent being reminded that my looks are fleeting and that I will soon be old,” Formosus shrugged.

“Not that soon,” Junius argued, “you are in a foul mood today, countryman.” He craned his neck. “Does Quintus Aelius have a new kitchen maid? I ought to go and look.”

“Stay,” Formosus growled, grabbing the other man by the wrist, “You can chase after girls later. I need to talk to you.” Junius sighed, but he sat back down. As much as the man could be an idiot, he was also soft-hearted and a good listener, and Formosus trusted him.

“Well?” Junius pushed his soft wavy hair out of his eyes, “what is the matter with you, countryman?“  
“This statue,” Formosus said slowly, “it started me thinking.”

“Never a good idea,” Junius said sagely, “thinking never leads to anything apart from premature ageing.”

„When I no longer please him,“ Formosus mused, “what do you think my Master will do? Sell me? Or turn me out? He might kill me.” Junius looked at the other man curiously.

“Why would you no longer please him?” Junius wrinkled his nose endearingly. “I'm not sure I understand your meaning.”

“Don't pretend to be denser than you are, Junius,” Formosus snapped, “I mean when I grow older and unattractive.”

“Your master is also growing older,” Junius shrugged, “when men grow older they become less interested in the pleasures of the bed and more interested in other pastimes, such as talking, or in the case of my Master for instance, eating. Not that I would personally know anything about that, I am still amply interested in the pleasures of the bed, but my Master used to...”

“Spare me the details,” Formosus interrupted roughly. Titus Cassius was a rotund little man and the thought of him with Junius was distasteful to Formosus. Formosus' own master would often joke that Titus Cassius was the slave and Junius the master, so dependent was his fellow senator on the opinion and the companionship of his slave. Titus Cassius had certainly heard of Junius' antics in the beds of random women, but rather than being angry or punishing the slave, he actually seemed proud of Junius' prowess. The relationship between the two appeared to Formosus to be far preferable to the obsession his own Master seemed to have with his looks and what he had to offer in the bedroom.

“Titus Cassius is not like my Master,” Formosus argued. Junius laughed.

“No,” Junius agreed, showing his straight, white teeth, “your master is far better looking, and I am sure he is more active in the bedroom than mine.” He patted Formosus' hand. “Your master told mine that when he brought you from Britannia, you vomited on the whole journey by ship to Gaul,” Junius blue-green eyes danced in amusement, “and he held your head all the way.” Annoyed Formosus scowled.

“And your master went straight to you and told you that,” Formosus complained.

“Actually I was listening at the door,” the other man explained, “but he did tell me later, anyway. But what I mean is that your master went to great trouble for you, he has fed you, clothed you, nursed you, taught you and protected you all these years, I do not think that he will set you on the streets if the corners of your eyes begin to wrinkle. I believe you underestimate his feelings for you.”

“Protected me?” Formosus spat.

“You cannot blame him for what happened,” Junius responded, “I have told you this before. You do not say no to an emperor. Neither of you would have survived it. He did what he could.”

“It was not enough,” Formosus said darkly.

Formosus was still angry that same night when he shared his master's bed. Although he loved his master's hands on his body, and the gentle caresses never failed to arouse him, inside he railed at the unjustice of it all. If his master had been able to hand him over to another to have his way with him, then surely he would be able to be rid of him as soon as he was no longer of any use to him. But they never spoke of what happened on that dreadful night five years ago, and likely never would.  
“Formosus,” the Senator whispered, “what ails you? You have been strange since work on the statue began. Surely you do not begrudge me my little whim?”

“It is hardly my place to begrudge my Master anything,” Formosus answered formally.

“Come now,” Quintus Aelius insisted, “forget the formalities for a moment. We lie together in bed, tell me what pains you? Your friend Junius would be overjoyed to have a statue made in his image.”

“Junius is vain and conceited, Master,” Formosus answered sullenly.

“And you are not vain?” the Roman laughed, “I have seen you preening in front of the mirror, Formosus, you are not blind to, or unappreciative of your own beauty.”

“I wish I should never have to hear that word again,” it broke out of Formosus.

“Will you not speak openly?” the Senator asked.

“There is nothing to say,” Formosus answered, “I have no complaint to make.”

That night, Quintus Aelius was extraordinarily gentle. They made love face to face, and what he couldn't say, and Formosus couldn't ask, was poured out between them when they came, almost simultaneously. Formosus slept then, his face pressed against his master's skin, breathing in his smell, and no bad dreams troubled his peace.  
*

It was a moment of madness, Marcus Tullius decided later, the Godess Ira must have taken possession of his mind. The slave had been standing there languidly, more relaxed than Marcus Tullius had seen him before. He exuded sex. The clay model was as good as finished, the next day his father would join him with his Greek workmen to start on the cool, white marble block. The sculptor would probably never be alone with Quintus Aelius' slave again. Perhaps that was what prompted him to go over where the other man was standing under the pretext of rearranging his shoulder, and linger there, feeling the warm skin of the other under his fingers and the slave's breath ghosting through his hair. He tilted his face up and saw that the other man was looking down at him, a puzzled look on his face. He had beautiful lips, the colour of ripe raspberries. Marcus Tullius lifted his own lips towards them. The slave didn't move a muscle. He just stared back into the sculptor's grey eyes with his own golden and green ones. It was just a tiny movement, the slightest lifting of his chin, a fraction of a motion of the head, and Marcus Tullius' lips were pressed against the raspberry mouth before him. At first he thought everything had stopped because all he could hear was the pounding of blood in his head. Then the world started to whirl around him as the lips beneath his own parted slowly and pressed back against his own.


	4. Chapter 4

“Master, no!” the boy had shrieked when he was torn out of his grip and dragged down the corridor. Quintus Aelius found himself restrained by strong arms as he tried to follow. He awoke in a cold sweat. It was his turn for bad dreams this time, Formosus was lying rolled on his side, his long, legs draped over the side of the bed, bare up to the thighs. He didn't move or make a sound. His thick, chestnut hair was fanned out over the pillow, stubble covered his chin. Apollo, perhaps, or Hermes, Quintus Aelius thought to himself. The slave stirred and threw one arm over the blanket, the soft curves of its muscles rippling slightly. It was half past two in the morning. Quintus Aelius couldn't get back to sleep that night.

The nightmare had left the Senator feeling unhappy and empty the next morning. He did his best not to show it, Formosus was in a gentle and affectionate mood after their love-making the night before; he had no idea that his master suffered just as acutely as he himself did from the horrors of the past, but he appreciated Quintus Aelius' kind and gentle treatment. Formosus helped his master dress and sat at his feet like a great cat, his head in the Senator's lap, while the Roman stroked his hair and prepared himself for his day at the Senate.  
*

Formosus didn't know why he kissed the sculptor back when that young man suddenly attacked his lips. Was it a reflexive gesture, or was he a little excited by the proximity of an attractive youth who he felt a connection to after their talks about Formosus' fears? It didn't matter, because their lips had hardly touched when the door was smacked open and Formosus felt himself grabbed by his mop of golden-brown hair and flung to the floor, a well-placed kick to his naked backside pushing him down on his face.

“What is the meaning of this?” a voice roared. Formosus did not dare to look up. The voice was not his Master's, and the Senator had, apart from the occasional sharp slap, never physically punished him, but then hitherto there had never been a reason for him to do so.

“Father!” he heard Marcus Tullius cry in alarm, and deduced that it was the master sculptor Lucius Priscus Severinus, come to check on his son's progress.

“What is the meaning of this?” Lucius Priscus lowered his voice, obviously aware that his son's position was more than ambiguous. His urge to vent his rage was overridden by his caution. It didn't stop him from aiming another kick at the prostrated slave. “What are you doing, letting this scum seduce you, he is another man's catamite, a disgusting scortum, do you not know what Senator Quintus Aelius keeps him for? I should never have left you alone with him.”

“Father, please!” Marcus tried to shield the fallen man with his body. “He did nothing wrong! It was I who approached him.”

“More fool you,” Lucius growled, “when you can easily buy a whore in the macellum magnum. I do not understand why Quintus Aelius dotes on this creature, but it is not my place to ask why my patron wants a dirty slave's image carved in marble. He looks well enough, but he is just a slave, a whore, not worthy of your touch. And he belongs to Quintus Aelius, who is, so I have heard, a dangerous man. Do not touch his property. And you,” he addressed Formosus, who hadn't moved from the floor, “will keep away from my son. If you do not I will tell your Master that you seduced my son against his will.” He kicked at Formosus again. “Get up!”

Marcus looked on worriedly as the Celt raised himself gracefully to his feet. As always, he seemed perfectly at ease with his nakedness, and there was a dignity in his bearing that silenced even his father. Formosus kept his eyes lowered, and his face mask-like, devoid of feeling. Inside, his anger was raging uncontrollably. He wanted to grab short, squat, ugly Lucius by the throat and shake him. He wanted to slap Marcus and shout: Why did you do that? Why did you put me into that situation? Instead, he willed himself to be silent, and he stood perfectly still while Lucius circled him, inspecting him like a horse he was considering buying, and comparing his form to the clay model Marcus had designed.  
“He is an unusual subject,” Lucius said grudgingly, “and you have captured him perfectly. If the statue turns out as well as the clay model, it will be a masterpiece.” He turned to Formosus. “If you misbehave, slave,” he threatened coldly, “I will beat you. There are methods which hurt a man without marking his skin. And if you breathe a word of this to your Master, I will tell him that you seduced my son against his will, and swear an oath to that effect. Your word as a slave is worth nothing in a court of law, and you will be tortured. Have I made myself understood, slave?” Formosus didn't look up. He nodded his head.

“I understand,” he said in a hoarse voice. If he had not had years of experience suppressing his feelings, the Celt could easily have turned on Lucius and killed him.

Lucius Priscus Severinus was not an evil man, in fact he treated his own slaves humanely and fairly. But he knew his place in Roman society, and was acutely aware of the difference between a Roman citizen and a slave from the Provinces. He also dearly loved his son, who resembled the wife he had adored. Agrippina had died tragically early in childbirth. Their son was extremely talented and this was his chance to show the extent of his craft. Lucius could well imagine that his son had acted on an impulse in the presence of Quintus Aelius' slave. Marcus had always favoured male companions, and the slave was a perfect specimen. But Lucius would do anything to protect his son from harm, including intimidating the slave. It was fear more than anger that prompted his reaction, and also a lack of comprehension that a noble and decorated Senator like Quintus Aelius should show such an inordinate amount of deference towards a lowly slave, however handsome or accomplished he might be. He knew very well that Quintus Aelius was besotted with the Celt, and that even the tiniest rumour that Marcus had meddled with his favourite might end very badly for the young man.  
While Marcus looked on, shocked at his father's outburst and the slave's cool acceptance, Lucius roughly pushed the slave into position and went to work on the clay model.  
“We start on the marble tomorrow, Marcus,” he said, working deftly, “the model is as good as finished. We won't need the slave here then, at least not until we start working on the details.”

“He did nothing wrong, Father,” Marcus tried again, “please don't be so harsh with him. The fault lies with me alone, I accosted him. He did nothing to encourage me.”

“Sex is his trade, it is what he does,” Lucius growled, “it might appear to you that he did nothing, but he is a seducer, his Master keeps him for precisely that talent. You are not at fault, boy, you just succumbed to his lure. We will speak no more of it.”

“Father,” Marcus tried again.

“Silence!” Lucius shouted. Formosus jumped. Marcus looked at his raspberry lips and a shiver went down his back. What he would give to taste them again.

*

Formosus felt ill. This was usually the best time of the day for him. Quintus Aelius had come home from the Senate, and the slave was kneeling before him, removing his sandals and washing his dusty feet in a bowl of warm, soapy water while the Senator regaled him with gossip and snippets of news and politics. But this evening he felt dreadful. He knew that Lucius was the last person who was likely to tell the Senator about his slave's inexcusable behaviour, but Formosus' heart was heavy because he knew that he had made a mistake. Not only had he kissed the sculptor back, but he had indeed seduced the young man to a certain extent. He had been well aware of the turmoil he had been creating, and he had been purposely causing the impressionable young man to come close to him just to spite him. He had let the sculptor engage him im conversation when he should have remained silent. He had made the man touch him when he should have obeyed and done as ordered. Any court of law would find him guilty of trying to seduce the boy, and of betraying his Master. His Master would not even need a court of law; as a slave he belonged to the Senator and could be punished or killed at his discretion.

But that was not what worried Formosus. He hated himself for betraying his Master's trust. In his way he had done precisely what he secretly always accused the Senator of: betrayal of trust. Now he was no better. Several times he opened his mouth, determined to admit to his crime, but each time fear overcame him. And what would happen to Marcus Tullius? Surely he would be punished too. He felt sorry for the young man. As for the father, Formosus still felt a murderous rage when he thought of the man's humiliating words and actions. He had never been thrown to the floor, kicked and called a dirty whore before.  
Formosus dried his Master's feet. The Senator had stopped talking and was looking at him, the familiar glint of desire in his eyes.  
“Formosus, carissimus,” he said in a low voice, spreading his legs and cupping the back of the kneeling slave's head, his intent obvious, “use your mouth. Use your pretty lips.” Formosus suddenly remembered that Marcus the sculptor had stared at his lips in precisely the same way, and he shuddered. Quintus Aelius' grip tightened on the back of his head. He was not in the mood for one of Formosus' little pretenses of shame. “Do as I say,” he urged. Formosus lifted his master's toga and pulled down his underwear. His erection sprang free, and the slave wrapped his lips around it, aware of his Master's eyes on him. With the ease of long practice, he swallowed the organ and brought his Master expertly to his climax. Afterwards, Quintus Aelius sat for a long time, the Celt's shaggy head on his knee, stroking the thick, unruly hair and mumbling endearments. Formosus closed his eyes, and for a moment he forgot the worries that had come into his life with his Master's demand for a statue.

*

“Formosus!” The nineteen-year old came bounding up at the call, long-limbed and tall, but astonishingly graceful.

“Master!” he greeted Quintus Aelius with a wide grin and kissed his hand reverently. “I missed you.” Unwilling to seem overly affectionate before the other slaves, the Roman went inside, followed closely by Formosus, and ushered the slave into the bedroom, where he turned and kissed him deeply.

“I missed you too, my boy,” the Senator said, “but I'm home now.”

“I hope the Emperor doesn't send you away again,” Formosus let the Senator unclasp his toga and slip it off his shoulders.

“I hope so, too,” Quintus Aelius answered, pulling the naked boy into his arms and enjoying the feeling of his smooth soft skin, “I have to report to him tomorrow, then hopefully he will release me from his service.”

“You go to see the Emperor tomorrow,” Formosus repeated wistfully, “how I would love to see him. They say he is very grand, and the palace is beautiful.” The Senator, intent on relieving his sexual urges, pent up after days on the road, was only half listening.

“Very grand indeed,” he answered, although his private opinion was that the Emperor Nero was getting more and more erratic in his behaviour. He and his fellow Senators had debated time and time again what to do about the increasingly worrying antics of the Roman ruler. He might have explained his worries to Formosus; the fire that it was rumoured Nero had started himself, the matricide, the orgies and the cruelty. He might have told Formosus about Nero's latest marriage to a man called Sporus, who, so the emperor maintained, reminded him of his deceased wife Poppaea Sabina, and who he had castrated prior to the wedding. Perhaps if Quntus Aelius had told him all this, Formosus wouldn't have asked Quintus Aelius to be one of the slaves accompaning the Senator to his appointment at the palace, and the Senator, intent on pouring his seed into the boy, wouldn't have agreed immediately just to please the slave who in his turn gave his master so much pleasure. But that was how it was decided, and Formosus was vibrating with excitement in his master's arms at the thought of seeing the palace and the famous Emperor Nero. He was still such a child, Quintus Aelius thought as he kissed the boy's smooth forehead and brushed back the mass of brown hair.

*

So much left unsaid between us, Quintus Aelius thought as he looked down at the slave's head on his knee, so many loose ends still to tie up. The Senator had been experiencing a sense of foreboding for a while now. Today, he had taken the time off to visit the augurs, and the auspices had not been good. All this he kept to himself. But the next day, the Senator thought, he would rise early and make some arrangements he should have made years ago. He would arrange for Formosus' manumission after his own death, and leave him the little villa in Tibur where they had spent many a happy summer weekend, together with enough money to keep him comfortably. Formosus deserved to be free.

“Formosus,” the Senator said quietly. The slave looked as if he was sleeping, but when he opened his large, golden-brown eyes, they were alert. He had been thinking back to the evening when he had begged his Master to let him accompany him to the Emperor's palace the next day. He shook off the memory.

“Are you hungry, Master?” he asked, “or shall we retire to bed?” The Senator smiled gently.

“Much as I would like to retire to bed with you, I have a duty to fulfill tonight.” He leaned down to kiss the other man's lips. “I must lay with Camilla,” he explained quietly, watching a frown appear on the Celt's brow, “in the hope that she may yet produce an heir.”

“Master,” Formosus said sulkily. He was jealous, there was no denying it, he had no right to begrudge his Mistress the company of her husband, but he did. Quintus Aelius was strangely touched by Formosus' little show of petulance. Often he did not know what Formosus was thinking, he had no idea what the other man felt for him. As open and affectionate as he had been as a boy, five years ago everything had changed and the slave's moods were sometimes dark and unpredictable. But one thing was always the same: he was jealous and possessive of his master, and he was completely unable to hide it.

*

Marcus awoke from troubled dreams feeling thirsty. He had taken too much wine before going to bed, and in his dreams, Quintus Aelius' slave had appeared and made him breathless. Now he was wide awake and parched. He left his father, snoring loudly in the adjacent room of the apartment Quintus Aelius had ceded to the sculptors for their use during their work in his house, and padded down the corridor on bare feet in search of the kitchen or some other place where he could procure a drink of water. After taking several labyrinthine turns, Marcus was no longer sure where he was in the Roman's huge house. It was dark, the corridor was lit with torches, but most had already gone out. He turned a corner and nearly screamed when he ran straight into something warm and soft. Looking up, he saw the slave's enraged face looming over him. He took a step back.

“What are you doing here?” the Celt demanded roughly.

“I was looking for a drink of water,” Marcus stuttered, intimidated.

“Try the kitchen,” the slave hissed angrily, “these are my Mistress' chambers.”

“Then what are you doing here?” Marcus returned, feeling braver. The slave was whispering, his manner was furtive. He was certainly not supposed to be in his Mistress' rooms. Marcus wondered briefly whether the man was having an affair with Quintus Aelius' wife. He was certainly dressed skimpily enough, in a short nightshirt with apparently nothing underneath, but then he never did seem to wear many clothes, if at all. Marcus swallowed. He wished he hadn't noticed the way the slave's body was outlined by the flickering light of the torches, clearly visible under the thin, white material of his night shirt. Marcus was overcome by the urge to kiss those lips again, although at the moment they were pressed into a thin and disapproving line. He moved towards Formosus, who moved, backing away until he was pressed against the wall of the corridor and could escape no more. When Marcus tried to reach his lips, the slave lifted his chin so that his lips were out of reach for the shorter sculptor.

“Go away!” the slave mouthed at him, and gave Marcus a push. Marcus pushed back.

“Just one kiss,” the sculptor insisted, then I promise I will leave. What are you doing here, anyway?

“Nothing,” Formosus retorted, annoyed, “go, before we are discovered.”

“I told you my condition,” Marcus said boldly, “just one kiss.”

“Haven't you got me into enough trouble already?” Formosus accused the other man, knowing he was being unfair. Marcus froze.

“I'm sorry,” he said, “you are right. My conduct has been dispicable.” Marcus reached up to stroke the slave's cheek. “I will go on my way to find the kitchen.”

It was a stupid thing to do. A repetition of what had happened earlier, only with reversed roles. An impulse. Perhaps it was pity, perhaps acknowledgement that there was something of an understanding between them. Whatever it was, Formosus suddenly bent his head and kissed the sculptor briefly on the lips. He hadn't noticed that one of the doors was ajar.


	5. Chapter 5

When Camilla married Quintus Aelius three years before, she considered herself a lucky woman. She had been widowed early, her first husband had died in Germania, and Quintus Aelius was quite a catch. He was not only a nobleman, a Senator and a war veteran, he was also rich and extremely good looking. A tall, powerful man with a classically handsome face and thick, curly dark hair, she was bowled off her feet when she first saw him. He was masterful and dominant, but not without gentleness and kindness. Her family urged her to accept his proposal, her friends had their doubts. At the time she had put these down to jealousy, now she knew that those who had warned her that Quintus Aelius had an unhealthy attachment to his slave were right. Quintus wanted an heir and that is why he had married her; when he shared her bed it was perfunctorily; otherwise he was polite, considerate and generous, but nothing more. Many women would have counted themselves lucky to have a husband such as Quintus Aelius, but unfortunately Camilla had fallen in love with the man who had wooed her, and she found it hard to tolerate the fact that he showed preference for a male slave in all things. In practise, Quintus Aelius was married to Formosus the slave, and not to her.  
With time her bitterness grew. It was not that she could not understand her husband's obsession with the Celt. He was beautiful, and she would have dearly loved to have him in her bed herself. She had tried to persuade him to come to her several times, but it seemed as if the slave was immune to anyone's charms but her husband's. All the same, her husband's complete disregard of her irked her, and the fact that she was still childless and he nonetheless hardly ever shared the bed with her hurt her pride and her feelings. If only she could bear him a child, an heir, everything would change, of that she was sure.  
She had been surprised that her husband had visited her in her chambers that night, surprised and overjoyed. He had very politely asked her if she would be agreeable to sharing her bed with him, after which he performed the task he had set himself with very little enthusiasm, and had then rolled over to sleep. From experience she knew that he would awake some time that night when she was asleep and could not remonstrate with him, and sneak back to his own bed where doubtless the ubiquitous Celt would be waiting for him.  
Camilla lay awake, nursing her anger and determined to catch her husband sneaking back to his lover. When she heard footsteps padding outside the door, she got up and opened it a slit. It afforded her a certain amount of satisfaction to see that it was in fact her husband's favourite, pacing the corridor in front of her rooms, face contorted with jealousy and rage and obviously waiting for her husband to return to him. She was about to turn away when more footsteps could be heard approaching, and a young man, by the looks of him no more than a boy, joined Formosus in the corridor. After a short, angrily hissed altercation the shorter man seemed to be pushing the tall Celt against the wall. With interest Camilla watched him try to kiss the slave, which the Celt predictably rejected. She could hardly believe her eyes when, just before the boy turned to leave, the slave angled his head down and placed a the kiss on the other man's lips. Never in a million years had she ever imagined that Formosus would do such a thing. Smiling, she watched the younger man leave, a dazed expression on his face and licking his lips, while Formosus resumed pacing the corridor, shaking his head and blinking as if just as surprised at his own actions as she was. She slid back into bed next to her husband, already plotting how she could use what she had seen to her advantage.  
When Quintus Aelius sneaked out of his wife's bed chamber like a thief later that night, Camilla was sleeping contentedly by then, he nearly fell over something warm and large lying in the corridor. From the groan it made after he had stumbled against it he could tell that he had nearly fallen over his slave. It was not the first time Formosus had waited for his master to leave his wife's bed. Quintus sighed. Formosus was still asleep. He went down on his knees to shake the slave's shoulder and rouse him.  
“Formosus,” he hissed, “wake up and come to bed.” Formosus groaned again, then grumbled a few words. “I can't carry you any more,” Quintus Aelius continued, looking down at the long lean body, “you are grown too tall.”

“Master,” Formosus said blearily, blinking at him. It was now nearly completely dark in the corridor. Formosus raised himself to his feet and allowed his master to lead him back to his own rooms. From the beginning, Formosus had never lived in the slave's quarters; he lived in his master's apartment and slept in his master's bed, even when the Senator was away. In fact, Formosus hardly knew the other slaves, and Master did not encourage him to seek out their company. Any friends that Formosus had were among the high-ranking slaves of other nobles, such as Titus Cassius' personal slave Junius. Although Quintus Aelius disapproved of Junius' womanising and general frivolousness, he knew that the other Celt was a kind-hearted and reliable friend to Formosus and he encouraged their friendship. Like a father, he was always watchful that Formosus didn't form what he considered unsuitable attachments. Formosus was prone to bouts of melancholy; Junius, who had a sunny outlook on life, could always cheer him up.

Stumbling, Quintus Aelius managed to manoeuvre the slave into his bed. When half asleep, Formosus' arms and legs which he usually moved so gracefully were altogether too long. Urging the slave down to lay on his side, the Senator lay down behind him and pushed up the other man's nightgown. Inserting a finger between the buttocks, he immediately felt the slick oiliness of preparation. Using two fingers, he made sure that the slave was loose enough. Formosus groaned loudly, but he did not stir. Quintus Aelius pushed into the tight warmth before him and sighed. Why did his wife not make him feel this way? He started moving slowly, gripping Formosus' shoulders for leverage. Formosus sighed in ecstasy.  
“Master,” he moaned. Quintus Aelius continued to thrust maddeningly slowly. He felt sweat break out on his forehead. He could hardly bear to hold back like this. Formosus seemed to feel the same, writhing and moaning as he was, restrained by the Senator's tight grip on his shoulders.

“Carissime,” the Roman whispered, “carissime, te amo.” Formosus made no sign that he had heard the words he had longed for since Quintus Aelius first became his Master.

But Formosus had heard what his Master had said, and he was saddened that the words he had desperately wanted to hear had come at a time when he could no longer feel happy about them. All his hopes and fears could have been allayed by those two little words if he had not stupidly betrayed his master by kissing Marcus the sculptor. If his Master loved him, then he would surely not disown or sell him when he grew older. But if he found out what had passed between himself and the sculptor, then being sold might be the best he could hope for. Slaves had been crucified for less. He felt his Master come inside him, but he couldn't climax. The feeling that he had disappointed his Master sickened him.  
Quintus Aelius was not a demonstrative man. He had not even noticed that words of affection had left his lips, so he also didn't notice that Formosus had frozen as soon as they had been spoken. Roman culture did not embrace sensitivity or sentimentality, and Quintus Aelius was not given to speaking of his feelings. He assumed that Formosus knew what he felt for him, there was no need to tell him. Had Formosus asked Quintus Aelius whether or not he would ever sell or discard him, he very probably would have shouted at him, just as Formosus had suspected. The Roman took it for granted that the slave he had brought from Britannia and who shared his bed and his life knew he was a permanent fixture. He was a slave, true, and Quintus Aelius was not prepared to change that during his lifetime. He wanted Formosus to belong to him, but that didn't mean that he didn't love him. He assumed the slave knew that, and he would have been outraged to find out that Formosus had feared that he might sell him.  
“You didn't come,” he said to Formosus.

“It doesn't matter, Master,” the slave answered quietly. Quintus Aelius patted the slave's thigh, then settled on his side facing him and went to sleep. He had business to attend to early in the morning. He was determined to arrange to have Formosus set free after his death.

Sleep didn't come so easily for Formosus. The thought of what he had done tormented him. All his earlier worries had been for nothing. He was well aware that a man like his Master didn't speak words like “I love you” lightly. He may have been in the throes of passion, but they were true nonetheless. It was the statue, the thrice-cursed statue that had started the trouble, Formosus thought to himself. If the statue had not unnerved him so, he would never have confided in the sculptor and established a level of intimacy that had led to them exchanging kisses. Twice! He could not tell his Master. After what his Master had said, he could not fail to be shocked to the core. He loved Formosus, and the slave had thanked him for his devotion by going behind his back with another man. He would be tortured and tried. Then he would be crucified. Quintus Aelius was a jealous man, he would never be able to forgive his slave.  
And speaking of forgiveness, Formosus himself had never forgiven his master for what had happened that day when he accompanied the Senator to the palace and caught the eye of the Emperor Nero. It was the reason for the slave's distrust and resentment towards Quintus Aelius. Had they spoken to each other of the horrors of that night, things might have gone differently between them. But they both suffered in silence, tortured by nightmares, one blaming the other, and neither able to communicate.  
Formosus rose even earlier than his master. He usually got up at daybreak to run. He had a body that seemed to be made for physical exercise, long, lithe and perfectly balanced. People tended to stare at him, clad as he usually was in nothing but a loincloth, his hard chest and long thighs bare and his skin slick with sweat. That was why he usually chose to run in the earliest hours of the morning when most of Rome was still in bed. He could usually run his fears and worries out of his body, but not this morning. When he reentered the house, panting and sweaty, there was someone waiting for him.  
Camilla was well acquainted with the slave's habit of going for a run in the mornings, she had often watched his perfect body glinting in the sunshine, his bright, chestnut hair around his head like a crown. She waited for him in the atrium, and when he entered she laid her finger on her lips and motioned him to follow her. Formosus scowled. Nothing good could come from his Mistress, he knew that from experience, but he did not dare to defy her outright, either; she was his Master's wife. He followed her into a small antechamber and watched distrustfully as she closed the door behind them.  
“Well, slave,” she said smiling and tracing her finger over Formosus' chest and down his stomach until she touched the thin line of dark hair that led under the waistband of the subligar to the man's genitals, “I believe there is something you can do for me.”

“Mistress?” Formosus growled.

“You can use your influence with my husband to urge him to share my bed more often,” she said bluntly, “so that I can bear him the heir he longs for.”

“I am only a slave,” Formosus said sulkily without looking at the woman, “I cannot tell my Master what he should do.”

“Oh but you can,” Camilla answered, “he listens to you. You not only can, but you will.”

“And why should I, Mistress?” Formosus was as close to contradicting his Mistress as he dared come.

“Because I, your Mistress, order it,” Camilla smiled.

“I take orders from my Master,” Formosus growled.

“Well then, if you insist.” Camilla grabbed hold of the slave's chin and forced him to look down at her. “You will do as I order because if you do not, I will tell your Master than you have a lover who you kissed in the corridor in front of my room while your Master was in there, exhausted after fulfilling his conjugal duties, which he should perform more often. Have I made myself clear, slave?”

“Mistress?” the slave looked at her, shocked, his eyes wide and huge. She reached down between his legs, grabbed his testicles and squeezed. A tiny, broken groan escaped him at the pain.

“You heard me, Celt,” she told him, coldly, “I will have your master's child. And when he is too busy to keep me company, then there are ways of pleasuring a woman that I will teach you that do not result in pregnancy. I wouldn't want a baby with your looks,” she smiled, “it might be a little difficult to explain.”

“But Mistress!” Formosus protested, shocked. Camilla let go of his chin and, still with a tight grip on his balls, reached out and smacked him hard across the face. It was something she had long wished to do, a punishment for the slave's insolence and arrogance. She saw the tears form in the man's eyes, whether from the smack, or the grip on his genitals, or because of what she had said; she neither knew nor cared.

“No more of your cheek,” she snarled, “you will do as I say or I will have you crucified like the common slave you are. Now run along to find your master.” She let the slave go and gave the dazed man a shove through the door before she turned on her heel and left.

Formosus just stood there, tears forming in his eyes. He had no idea what to do. He felt a hand on his shoulder and jumped.  
“It's me, Marcus.” Formosus turned and looked straight into the young sculptor's grey eyes. “I heard what she said, she was shouting so loudly; and I am sorry. It was my fault. I should never have touched you.” The young man's eyes were full of pity.

“No,” Formosus contradicted, “no, it was my own mistake. I provoked you, and it was I who kissed you in the corridor in front of my Mistress' chambers.”

“It was stupid, and should never have happened,” Marcus agreed. “Perhaps I can go to your master and explain that it was I who asked you for a kiss, and it was I who has persistently tried to win you over, because that much is true. From the first time I saw you, I wanted you. I am sorry, I didn't think of your position and how I endangered you.”

“It is my own fault,” Formosus mumbled, looking away, “I didn't think. I will manage, somehow.” Marcus stretched out a hand as if to touch the other man's arm, but pulled it back again.

“You cannot seriously be contemplating giving in to the woman? Once you started succumbing to her blackmail, it would never stop, you would just sink in deeper and deeper. Let us tell your Master.”

“No!” Formosus said vehemently, “I cannot. I cannot bear the consequences.”

“But what would they be?” Marcus asked, “surely it would be nothing worse than a telling-off and perhaps a sound beating.”

“Master has never beaten me before.” Formosus looked away.

“Surely you don't still harbour those unfounded fears that he would sell you, or throw you out should you displease him? You must realise that those things would never happen.”

“He might have me killed. Slaves have been killed for less,” Formosus said.

“Not for a kiss,” Marcus argued.

“He might not believe it was just a kiss.” Formosus looked around the sumptious atrium. He had never realised how much he had come to love his Master's house, and that it had become home to him.

“I think you are upsetting yourself unnecessarily,” Marcus said. Formosus barely heard him.

“He might sell me to others for their pleasure,” Formosus said to himself, “I could not bear that.”

“Like a whore? Don't be ridiculous. Your master is a Senator, as if he would do such a thing.” Formosus suddenly looked at Marcus, his green and golden eyes sad.

“But he has done it before,” he told the other man solemnly, “he let the Emperor Nero have me, to further his own interests. I hardly survived it. I would die rather than have that happen again.” Marcus stared at the slave open-mouthed. Perhaps this was the explanation for the slave's deeply distrustful nature.


	6. Chapter 6

“Stichus servus meus liber heresque esto.” Quintus Aelius put down the quill.  
“It is done,” Titus Cassius said. The other four witnesses nodded.

“I suppose it is for the best.” Senator Gaius Sidonius scratched his long, thin nose. “I dare say you know what you are doing. But please, as your friend, I implore you to overcome these morbid fantasies of yours.”

“The augurs foretold it,” Quintus Aelius answered.

“The augurs have been wrong before. They are only humans, trying to read the will of the Gods.” Gaius Sidonius patted the other man on the back. They had been friends since childhood, and he hated to see Quintus Aelius in this mood. “You will see. It will not come to the worst. Signs can be misunderstood.”

*

Still in shock after his unhappy meeting with Camilla, Formosus bathed and dressed mechanically. As his Master's concubinus, he was privileged among the Senator's household. When his Master was not there, Formosus' duties were not arduous. He changed the linen on the bed and tidied his Master's personal effects. The rest was left to the cleaning slaves. He then went to his Master's office, where he managed his Master's accounts and any other business that was left for him. At midday, he often went out to the little walled garden that was accesible only from the Senator's apartment. His Master liked him to read, to improve his Greek and educate himself. Apart from his morning run, Quintus Aelius did not allow his slave to leave the house unaccompanied. When Formosus ran in the fields in the early morning, there was no one who could possibly catch up with him, and the undergrowth was too rough for anyone to follow him on horseback. In the crowded streets he could easily be overcome and dragged away, and this was what the Senator feared. Never again would he allow any stranger, whether Emperor or not, to lay their hands on his lover. Too bitter had been the aftermath of Formosus' meeting with the madman Nero. Quintus Aelius was driven by his need to protect Formosus. But he had never explained his commands to the slave, and Formosus assumed his master didn't trust him. In the light of recent events, Formosus could not blame his master for that. In reality though, Quintus Aelius would have trusted Formosus with his life.

Formosus didn't mind being alone, he would wait patiently for his Master to return. Quintus Aelius usually left the Senate in the early afternoon, and the rest of the day was spent with Formosus at his side. Often he went to visit friends or business associates, and Formosus would always accompany him, both of them watched over by a member of the Senator's personal guard. They would visit the baths and sometimes the theatre.  
When Quintus Aelius visited friends, Formosus would listen carefully but, ever mindful of his status as slave, would never join the conversation even if invited. The senator's friends had known Formosus since Quintus Aelius had first brought him from Britannia as a half-grown boy who clung to the older man like a small child; they had watched him grow and flourish, and then seen him retreat into himself after something happened that Quintus Aelius refused to talk about. Titus Cassius was the only one of Quintus' friends who had an idea, because Junius had managed to worm some of the truth out of Formosus, and Titus Cassius and his slave had no secrets from one another. But every time he had endeavoured to talk to his friend, Quintus Aelius had dismissed Titus' questions angrily.  
So Formosus waited, but this time it was not with the pleasant shiver of anticipation that he usually experienced while waiting for his Master and the diversions that he might have planned for the afternoon. His heart was heavy and his conscience guilty. When Quintus Aelius arrived he was abrupt and distracted. His Master's mood did nothing to allieviate Formosus' apprehension. His orders were curt and to the point, and when Formosus sidled closer to him he smiled only briefly, ruffled the slave's hair and moved away to sort through a bundle of papers he had brought with him. He rolled up two of the parchments and put them into a box.  
“Formosus,” he said sternly, “you will put this box in the cupboard in the library. Should anything at all happen, should I be unable to be here at some point, I want you to take those parchments out and then read them. One of them contains instructions for you to follow. Do you understand?” Formosus frowned at his master.

“Master?” he said sullenly, “no, I don't understand. What should happen? Why will you not be here?”

“Just obey my orders,” Quintus Aelius growled, his dark eyes flashing. “Take the scrolls to the library.”

“As you wish, Master,” Formosus answered with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. He reached out to take the box, but the Senator grabbed him by the wrist.

“I don't like your tone,” the Roman snarled, “behave yourself, slave. This is serious, I am not playing.” Formosus drew in a sharp breath. Quintus Aelius very seldom spoke to him harshly, even if he wasn't always respectful. Chastened, he lowered his eyes and scurried away with the box.

Torn between fear that his Master's mood was a consequence of finding out his misbehaviour, and annoyance that the Roman should be so abrupt with him, it was with some trepidation that Formosus reentered his Master's chambers. Quintus Aelius was removing a thin, golden chain from his neck.  
“Come here,” he ordered. In his other hand, he held a key. “This,” he said holding it in front of Formosus' face, “is the key to the villa in Tibur.”

“Are we going there?” Formosus interrupted excitedly. Some of his fondest memories were of spending the hotter months of the year in the little villa in the hills, alone with his master. But Quintus Aelius held up his hand.

“Be quiet and listen carefully.” He threaded the key onto the golden chain he had removed from his neck, and fastened it around the slave's neck. “Keep this key safe,” he told Formosus, “and should anything occur to prevent me from being here to protect you, then take one of the horses and go to the villa. You will be safe there. Am I understood?” Panicked, Formosus stared at the other man.

“No, I don't understand,” he whined, “you fill me full of fear. Why will you not be here? Are you going away?”

“I hope not,” Quintus Aelius managed to smile, “this is just a precaution. I want to think you will always be safe. I have been remiss as far as that goes in the past, have I not?” Formosus felt his mouth fall open. Had his master just referenced the incident with the Emperor Nero? He had never mentioned it before. The slave dropped to his knees.

“Master,” he said, touched.

“Get up, you fool,” Quintus Aelius said, but he ruffled the other man's hair affectionately and helped him to his feet. Formosus clutched the key around his neck.

“Thank you, Master,” he said.

“I should have made provisions for you long ago,” the Senator muttered to himself.

Master was obviously in one of his strange moods again. Formosos relaxed a little. Whatever it was, it didn't seem to have anything to do with his own misdemeanours. Quintus Aelius was still poring through his papers while the slave stood next to him, looking over his shoulder.  
“Formosus,” the Senator mumbled, distracted, “run along to see the sculptors, they need you. Some detail they want you for.” He waved his hand, dismissing the slave. Formosus didn't budge. Annoyed, Quintus Aelius looked up. “What?”

“Must I?” Formosus pleaded.

“What is wrong with you today?” the Senator roared, “off with you!” Sulkily, Formosos complied.

“I could ask the same of you,” the slave muttered under his breath.

Formosus dawdled in the corridor, trying to delay the moment when he had to come face to face with the man he had kissed twice, and his father, who had shoved him to the ground and called him a whore. Sighing, he opened the door.  
“You took your time, pusio,” Lucius spat at him. Formosus didn't answer, but the insult smarted. He avoided looking at Marcus. “Stand still and look at me. I need to see your face. And push back that mop you have as hair. How can I see your forehead with that hanging in your face?” Lucius' tone was harsh. Formosus sighed loudly, but did as he was told. “Your representation was accurate,” the older sculptor said, obviously adressing his son, “his lips really are beautiful. So are his eyes. The model is very good, Marcus, very good indeed. You may go, spintria. I won't have an unprincipled whore in the same room as my impressionable son longer than absolutely necessary.”

“Father,” Marcus intervened, “it was my fault entirely.” Wordlessly, and without looking up, Formosus left the room. He couldn't help thinking that, without the protection of his Master, he would be at the mercy of opinionated bigots such as Lucius.

Slowly, he walked back to his Master's apartment, hoping that the Senator would be in a better mood when he got there. Quintus Aelius was sitting in a chair when he entered, looking straight in front of himself, obviously lost in thought.  
“May I wash my Master's feet?” Formosus suggested gently. The Senator looked up with a smile.

“That would be a good idea, Formosus,” he answered, but he looked sad. Unsettled, the slave went to the bathroom to fetch a bowl of hot water, oil and a towel. He carefully bathed the Senator's dusty feet and massaged them with olive oil.

“The Celts use a mixture of fat and ash to clense themselves, so I have heard,” Quintus Aelius said casually. Formosus started. It was the second time in a short period that the Senator had mentioned his slave's origins.

“Yes, Master,” Formosus agreed carefully.

“Perhaps we might try it,” the Senator said.

“Yes Master,” the slave said.

“Come here,” Quintus Aelius whispered gently, “and sit on my lap as you did as a boy.” Formosus set the bowl aside and sat down sideways on the Roman's lap, his long legs stretched out in front of him, one long arm around his master's neck. “You are a little too tall to sit comfortably,” the Senator smiled, his hand caressing the smooth skin of Formosus' thigh.

“A little,” Formosus agreed.

“Tell me,” the Roman said, “which is your favourite place?” Formosus thought. He remembered the salt marshes and the white sand dunes. The sun glinting on the sea and the call of the sea gulls. The bluebell-filled, deep woods and the larks singing in summer. He shook his head. It was the smell of wild thyme in the hills, the scorched grass and the sun on the parched soil. The aroma of herbs released as he rolled on the ground with the other man, kissing until their lips were raw.

“My favourite place is being at the villa in Tibur. With you, Master.”

“Flatterer,” Quintus Aelius smiled, but he pulled the slave's head down until their lips met and held it in place, kissing him over and over again.

*

Nero's palace, Domus Aurea, the golden house, was the most beautiful place Formosus had ever seen. The walls and ceilings were full of fantastic images, and there were huge statues of the emperor so high that Formosus had to crane his neck to see the top of them. The walls that were not painted were plated with pure gold, and the smell of perfume hung heavily in the air.

When they were led before the emperor Nero himself, Formosus was shocked. Nero was a large, florid man with an extended stomach. He was wrapped in a toga of imperial purple which was embroidered with golden leaves. His chin was weak, and his aspect malevolent. Formosus' Master was speaking, but the Emperor was not listening. His eyes were fixed on the boy. The slave knew what that look meant. The same look had glinted in the soldiers' eyes, that night by the fireside when his Master had saved him. Without warning, Nero turned to two of his guards.  
“Take him to my chambers,” he ordered, pointing at Formosus.

“No!” the slave screamed and clung to Quintus Aelius. But the guards took him easily and dragged him down the corridor. This time, his Master did not save him.

*

“Bad dreams, Formosus?” Quintus Aelius mumbled, stirring sleepily.

“Bad thoughts, Master,” the slave answered quietly.

“It won't happen again,” the Senator said soothingly.

How can you know, Formosus thought, how can you say that when you did nothing to save me. You left me to that beast, and a week later, you had a seat in the Senate.

Formosus was up early, earlier than usual. Master was still asleep, and the sun was only just peeking over the horizon. He quickly pulled on a loincloth and sneaked through the quiet house to go outside and run. Sleep hadn't come easily that night, he had worried about Camilla, and the memories of his encounter with the Emperor Nero had intruded into his thoughts again as they always did when he was unsettled. When he had passed through the narrow street and was out in the fields, he felt freer. The dry grass whipped his ankles, he barely felt the ground under his feet when he ran. The first birds were singing and the air was fresh and cool. When he was running, the Celt always felt as if his worries couldn't catch up with him.  
Formosus stayed away longer than he had meant to. He hurried back, he wanted to eat with his Master before the Senator left the house. When he came closer, he heard the sound of wailing and of voices raised in panic. Formosus felt his gut clench; there was something wrong. Before he could turn the corner and enter the house, he felt himself grabbed by the arm and pulled into a side-alley.  
“Don't go there!” He looked at the person who had taken his arm and saw that it was Marcus, the sculptor.

“What do you mean?” Formosus growled angrily, “are you following me now?”

“No, or rather yes, I've been waiting for you,” Marcus rubbed a hand through his hair. “Something terrible has happened, and you will be blamed for it. You must not go back.”

“Do you mean the kiss? I have thought about it, I shall tell my Master and bear the consequences. Now let me go, I must see him.” Formosus tried to shake Marcus off, but the sculptor was stronger than he looked.

“Listen to me,” he told the slave, “this is not about the kiss. You must go immediately. I can hide you.” There was a scream from the house and more raised voices.

“What has happened? Let me go there, Master needs me,” Formosus shouted.

“He doesn't need you, please trust me, come with me, we can talk later.” Marcus tried to drag the tall Celt away from the house. Formosus pulled his arm away and strode back in the opposite direction. Marcus grabbed him around the waist and pulled him back into the alley.

“Leave me be!” Formosus swung on the shorter man, “what do you think you are doing?”

“Saving your life,” Marcus said earnestly, “your Master is dead. They suspect that you killed him. Even if someone else is found guilty of the murder, you will still be executed. You are his slave, and should have protected him. Now please, come with me.” Formosus fell back against the wall. His chest was tight, his legs were weak and he had the feeling that the world around him had blurred.

“No,” he whispered, “please, Andraste, help me. This is not true. I cannot live without him.”


	7. Chapter 7

Marcus watched the tall Celt crumble with a sense of shock. He had expected the man to be distraught, upset; perhaps even hysterical, but the intensity of Formosus despair momentarily threw him. It seemed that he had misinterpreted the slave's meaning when he had told Marcus how afraid he was of losing his Master's affection. Marcus had assumed that Formosus was merely concerned about his fate; from the look on the other man's face he could see now that Formosus loved the Senator deeply and had feared that those sentiments would one day not be returned.

Formosus felt that everything worth living had been taken from him. He didn't care that he would probably die, either as his Master's murderer, or for failing to protect the Senator. What he cared about was that the centre of his universe had been ripped out; Quintus Aelius had not just been his Master and owner, he had been his mentor, his lover, his teacher and perhaps also his friend. It had always rankled with Formosus that he could never be on equal terms with his Master, but the Senator's superiority had been more fatherly than masterly; he was the paterfamilias, father of the extended family, including slaves, servants and those who enjoyed his patronage. Formosus slid to the ground. He wished he could die.  
“Get up!” Marcus insisted, panicked, and managed to pull the slave to his feet. He threw a long, hooded cloak over the Celt's shoulders, wrapped it around him and pulled the hood over his head. “You need to stoop,” the sculptor told Formosus, pushing his head down, “or your height will give you away. Walk haltingly, like an old man. Keep your eyes on the ground. I will guide you.”  
Formosus didn't resist. He was past caring. He let Marcus guide him through the streets, stumbling, his eyes blurred with tears. He had no idea where he was, he kept his eyes lowered. After walking for quite a distance, Marcus stopped and unlocked a gate. He pulled Formosus inside and locked it behind him. Then he pushed the hood off the slave's head. His thick hair was sticking up at all angles and his face was tear-stained and pale. Marcus wanted to comfort him, but there would be time for that later.

He led the Celt over to a large barn. The wooden gates were secured with an iron lock, which Marcus proceeded to unfasten. Formosus didn't ask where they were, nor did he seem to care. He looked dazed and just stood there, staring at his feet. Marcus opened the gate and pushed the other man inside. The barn was the sculptors' storehouse; it was full of marble blocks, some covered with white sheets; there were also trestles, tools and clay models. Closing the gate behind them, the sculptor led the slave to the furthermost corner of the storage house, behind several huge, sheet-covered stone blocks. He sat down on the ground, pulling the other man to sit next to him. The Celt's cloak had fallen open, baring his smooth chest. Marcus couldn't help staring for a moment, then he noticed the other man's vacant stare. He wrapped the cloak around the slave tightly, and put an arm around him comfortingly.  
“My Master,” Formosus began, his voice weak and hoarse, “is he really dead?”

“I'm sorry,” Marcus answered, “I wish it were not so, for your sake. I believe the Senator was a good man; he didn't deserve such a fate.” Marcus could feel the strong shoulders under his arm begin to shake.

“His fate,” Formosus repeated in a weak voice, “what was his fate? How did he die?”

“He was stabbed,” Marcus answered, hoping that the slave wouldn't ask any further, “apparently he must have been stabbed while he slept.”

“And I was not there to protect him,” Formosus said dully, “I deserve to die.”

“Don't speak like that!” Marcus stroked a tentative hand over the slave's cheek, “your Master would not want you to die. Certainly not for a crime you did not commit.”

“I committed the crime of neglect,” Formosus sighed, “I should never have left him.”

“You could not have known...” Marcus began.

“What was he stabbed with? Was he stabbed through the heart? Tell me how he died. Did you see him?” Formosus clutched the sculptor's hand. It was the question Marcus had been fearing.

“No, my father sent me away as soon as the commotion started. It seems that one of the kitchen slaves came to bring your Master his breakfast and found him. She screamed blue murder, and others came. Unfortunately your Mistress entered the room before anyone could stop her. Apparently she fainted and had to be carried to her bed chamber. Just before I left, I heard that the Vigiles were coming and the Cohortes Urbanae were close behind. Judging by the screams I heard, their arrival caused some further panic.”

“But who would do such a thing? I don't understand.” Formosus stared at Marcus.

“No one understands. From what I heard before I left, your Master's household believes you killed him in a fit of anger or jealousy. Anyone who knows you better must realise of course that this cannot be true. But you are a slave, and an easy victim.” Marcus sighed. “Formosus, I had better tell you this, as it is will soon be all over Rome and you will hear it anyway. It is better you should hear it from me. The Senator was stabbed multiple times and his face was slashed. He was covered in blood and nearly unrecognisable when he was found, save for the ring on his finger and his black curly hair. The murder was done in a fit of rage, this was no cold-blooded execution, it was a crime of passion. That is why you are the obvious choice for his murderer.”

“I could never harm him,” Formosus mumbled.

“I know,” Marcus agreed, “but even if you were cleared of the murder, you would be executed for failing to protect your master. You remember when Claudius Varus was poisoned? His entire household were put to death for failing to exercise the proper precautions.” But Formosus was hardly listening.

“If I find out who killed my Master,” he gritted, “I will do the same to him. I will not rest until I have avenged his death.”

*

“Formosus?” Camilla threw her hair brush across the room. “I've never heard anything so ridiculous in my life. That big blockhead wouldn't hurt a fly. As if he would stab the Senator multiple times! He doesn't have the stomach for it. He's just a spoilt concubinus who my husband hand-fed candied rose petals for his own diversion, a pretty plaything.”

“But Domina,” the large, burly centurio of the Cohortes Urbanae said respectfully, “the slave has been missing since this morning.”

“He goes for a run every morning,” Camilla spat resentfully, “and knowing him, he bolted in terror when he found out what happened. He is not my husband's murderer.”

“But he has a motive,” the centurio argued, “and five Senators bear witness to it.”

“What motive would that be?” Camilla asked.

“Yesterday, Senator Quintus Aelius made his will before five witnesses as the law requires. In it he set the slave free and made him his heir. Stichus servus meus liber heresque esto.” Camilla stared at the Centurio.

“He made the slave his heir?” she asked, “and what am I to do?”

“Domina, you should ask one of the Senators,” the Centurio answered, “as far as I know you are to keep the money you brought into the marriage and also the town house. A sum of money goes to the Senator's nephew, and several smaller sums to other beneficiaries. The rest of the estate belongs to the slave. His freedom and riches: I think that would be worth killing for.”

“My husband,” Camilla hissed, “a slave to his own slave.” She looked up at the Centurio. “Will that be all?”

“Yes, Domina,” the Centurio said respectfully and a little regretfully, because Camilla was a beautiful woman and he had enjoyed looking at her, especially laid out, as she was, on her bed.

*

“Junius, stop pacing the floor, you are making my head hurt.” Titus Cassius was lying on his couch and watching the slave move around the room restlessly.

“I just can't think where that idiot, that stultissimus, has got to.” Junius caught sight of himself in a mirror and patted his hair. “Master, you are much cleverer than I am, help me find out where he is.” Titus Cassius was a good-natured man who could never deny anybody anything, certainly not Junius, who he considered his trusted friend and lover rather than his slave.

“Well, does he have any friends he might have gone to?” Titus Cassius asked.

“None he could have gone to without being found,” Junius answered, “and I tend to think that Formosus would have panicked, confronted with the murder of his Master like that.”

“It is a terrible thing, terrible,” Titus Cassius confirmed, “and Quintus Aelius had a premonition that he would be killed, he even went to the augurs, and they foretold it. He was one of my oldest friends, and a good man, brave and compassionate, a rare combination. Junius, I shall miss him.”

“I know,” Junius said impatiently, “but for now, we have to think of the living. Where could that baby elephant be hiding?” Titus Cassius frowned.

“Quintus Aelius loved Formosus,” Titus Cassius mused, “even if he could never say the words. The least we can do in his memory is help the person he treasured the most. But who knows where the man is. Perhaps he is already on his way back to Britannia.”

“Hardly,” Junius muttered, “he is such a baby, he has never done anything without his Master. Most likely he is thunderstruck, incapable of rational thought. Of course the Will makes things look bad for Formosus.”

“Freedman or not, I hardly think he is better off without his Master and with the suspicion of murder hanging over him,” Titus Cassius reasoned, “of course he might be acquitted of the murder and killed all the same on the grounds that he should have been watching over his master. On the other hand, that is what Quintus Aelius employed watchmen and guards for. It is certainly a difficult situation for Formosus.”

“I hope I find him before anyone else does,” Junius remarked darkly.

*

Formosus was exhausted. Leaning against the sculptor's shoulder, he allowed himself to be comforted by the other man. In reality, he hardly noticed what was happening at all, locked as he was in his own tiny world full of grief and pain. He would never hear his Master's voice again, see his dark eyes flash or feel his gentle touch. They would never read together again, or ride on horseback through the hills at Tibur. Something stirred inside Formosus' mind, like a nagging doubt, but he was unable to focus; too great was the upheaval in his breast.

Marcus held the Celt close. His feelings were mixed and he was uneasy. He was sad for Formosus and regretted the passing of a man known to be brave and virtuous, but the unhappy situation did nothing to dull the feelings he felt towards the man he currently had in his arms. Formosus radiated warmth; where the cloak had slipped, his skin was as smooth as silk and without a blemish. Marcus would have given a kingdom, had he possessed one, to kiss the perfect lips and slide his hand over the hard, naked chest of the man next to him. He dreamed of touching that large member he had seen and feeling it grow in his hand. Marcus had to bite his lip until it bled to control himself. He felt terrible that he was thinking of his own urges while Formosus was so obviously distressed.  
Gradually, the Celt slipped into an exhausted sleep full of strange and frightening dreams. When he realised that the other man was no longer awake, Marcus pressed a chaste kiss to the Celt's thick, chestnut hair and laid him down slowly and carefully to lie on the floor. He needed to get some blankets, food and water if he wanted to sustain the fugitive for any length of time. His father would be wondering where he was. Before the Vigiles had entered the house, which had caused even more panic and uproar, he had told his son to go home and that he would follow later. Very probably Lucius was already waiting at the house; it wouldn't do for him to come looking for his son in the storage building. Marcus quietly rose and left.  
When Formosus awoke, it must have been late afternoon as the shadows were growing longer, he couldn't remember where he was and what had happened for a short moment of bliss. Then memory came crashing down on him.  
“Master,” he whimpered quietly as realisation hit him that he would never see the Senator again, and never awaken in his arms again. He was lying on the floor of the sculptor's storehouse, his head bedded on a folded blanket and one thrown over him. There was an amphore of water near him and a plate with fruit and bread. Next to him was a stack of neatly folded clothes; all this was presumably Marcus' doing. Formosus closed his eyes again and tried to shut out reality.

*

“Come here,” the Senator said. Formosus had been in Rome for three weeks and was still afraid and confused by the masses of people, the sounds and the smells. He knew nothing of cities, and had certainly never seen one as huge as Rome. The house intimidated him, and he only felt safe when he was near the man who had taken him away from his home and now kept him as his own. Formosus was quick to learn, he could already speak and understand basic Latin, and his Master spoke some of the Celtic dialect that was his mother-tongue. He knew he was a slave now, and that he had to obey the Roman in all things. Formosus was quiet and compliant by nature; still the knowledge that he was now no longer free festered within his heart like a wound that will not close. Luckily the Senator was indulgent and kind to him although he could be firm and even stern at the slightest sign of rebellion.

Formosus swallowed his pride and obeyed his new Master; he did this mainly because he was infatuated with the tall, dark-haired Roman. The Celt had never been interested in girls and had never understood what the other boys had been talking about when they discussed the various merits of the females around them, but when Quintus Aelius touched him for the first time, his body had immediately awoken to the pleasurable sensations that sex could impart. He couldn't get enough of the Roman's body.  
At the Roman's command, Formosus walked over to his Master and settled on his lap, one arm around his neck and his head coming to rest on the other man's broad, muscular shoulder. He enjoyed the feeling of the Roman's strong, calloused hands on his body, and he stretched like a cat at their touch. The Roman could do things to him and cause sensations that Formosus would never have thought possible. But although the Roman had already taught him how to satisfy his Master orally, had masturbated him and had fingered him gently, causing the most exquisite feelings to course through his body, he had never penetrated him. He had spoken to Formosus of penetration and shown him murals depicting the act in the bath house that he had taken him to on several occasions. He had warned him that it would hurt to begin with, but that later pleasure would dispell the pain. Formosus had begged him several times to try this new thing with him, but the Roman had always refused, saying that he needed more time to get used to being stretched. But he could already easily take two of the Roman's large fingers, and the sensations were so sweet that he craved more.  
“Master,” Formosus whispered into the Roman's ear, shifting so that his hip was rubbing up against the Roman's growing erection, “please.” His Master sighed and unclasped the boy's clothing, throwing it to the floor. His hands wandered over the adolescent body, the flat stomach, the already hardening muscles on Formosus' arms. No one in Britannia had ever told Formosus that he was beautiful, but the Roman and his friends admired him all the time. The Roman slid his arms under the Celt's naked body and picked him up, although he was nearly as tall as his Master. He carried him to the bed and lay him down on his stomach, kneeling beside him. Gently he parted the boy's legs, settling between them. He parted the firm buttocks with two fingers, coating the fingers of his other hand with scented oil from a bottle he kept close to the bed for that purpose. When he felt the finger enter him, Formosus whole body jolted. Master always found a spot inside him that made his body seem to shiver and vibrate. Soon, a second finger entered and the fingers began scissoring and stretching him, always brushing over the pleasurable spot inside if he tensed with discomfort. Formosus felt his member harden beneath him and moaned. Panting from the sensations, the boy felt the tip of a third finger push inside. It hurt and he tensed; a little cry of pain escaping him. The finger was not withdrawn but he felt his Master's other hand push underneath him and stroke his softening member firmly. Pleasure overtook pain, and the hand on his penis distracted him from the uncomfortable stretching of his anus so much that he hardly noticed when the third digit slid inside completely and the manipulation of the ring of muscle surrounding his entrance was resumed with three fingers. The spot inside him was brushed again and that, together with the firm hand on his penis, was almost too much. He moaned and writhed, afraid that he might come before his Master had finished his ministrations. He badly wanted to feel more than his Master's fingers inside him. The hand on his member was withdrawn and Formosus could concentrate on the feeling of being stretched. Every time he tensed because the pain became too strong, the fingers stroked firmly over the spot inside him and the discomfort was forgotten. After a time, it seemed as if he could take the three fingers easily. He turned his head to one side.  
“Master,” he said pleadingly. He felt the fingers being withdrawn, and was disappointed. Then he was gently rolled onto his back, his Master hovering over him.

“I want you to look at me, Formosus,” the Roman said, his eyes dark and piercing, “whatever you do, don't look away.” Formosus nodded and fixed his eyes on the other man's face. Quintus Aelius leaned down and placed a lingering kiss on the boy's lips, then he pulled the Celt's hips onto his thighs, the spread legs dangling on each side of him.

“Relax,” he whispered, rubbing the boy's stomach, “and trust me.” He set the tip of his engorged member against Formosus' opening, and pressed slowly inside. The boy gasped at the instrusion, it hurt and he tensed in pain, which made it hurt even more. He wailed and tried to push the Roman away, but he caught his wrists and held them tight.

“Trust me,” Quintus Aelius hissed, “push outwards. The pain will pass.” The boy did as he was told and he felt his Master's member slip in a little further. This time the pain was not as great. His wrists were released and he grabbed the other man's arms for support. The Roman was studying his face, perhaps gauging the pain. “Shh,” he said, rubbing the boy's stomach soothingly. He slid in further yet. Formosus realised that he was gripping his Master's biceps so tightly that they would be bruised, but the Roman did not seem to notice, or maybe he didn't care. “Push outwards and relax.” The voice was hypnotic. The Roman slid inside completely. He could feel the wiry pubic hair against his anus. “I am going to pull out now a little way,” Quintus Aelius explained, “it may hurt again but the pain will lessen. You must relax.” The Roman took the boy's penis in his hand and began to stroke it firmly. When Formosus was lost in the sensations, he withdrew, and pushed back in. The boy felt no pain, he was lost in a sea of sensations both inside and outside his body. He groaned loudly as his Master repeated the movement, withdrawal, reinsertion, over and over again, stroking the spot inside him, his hand making his member leak and jump. Formosus kept his eyes on the man hovering above him and saw him smile. He leaned down and kissed the boy, and Formosus came so hard it nearly rendered him unconscious.


	8. Chapter 8

“You haven't eaten.” Marcus sat down on the floor next to the Celt, who was lying listlessly on his side. At least, Marcus thought with a mixture of relief and disappointment, he's dressed.

“I'm not hungry,” Formosus growled irritably. He was trying to ignore the young sculptor who was obviously intent on getting his spirits up.

“What's your name?” Marcus asked suddenly. Formosus rolled over and stared at the other man.

“You know my name!” Formosus shook his head.

“I mean your real name, your birth name,” Marcus insisted. Formosus was quiet for a moment.

“My name is Formosus, the name my Master gave me,” he answered at length.

“Your parents must have given you a name.” Marcus edged closer.

“My parents are dead.” Formosus looked away.

“You are one of the Iceni, your Master told us,” Marcus continued, “did your parents die during the uprising?”

“They died when I was still a baby.” Formosus sighed. He wished Marcus would stop asking questions. His Master had never discomforted him by prying into his past, he had known that it pained Formosus to talk of it.

“My Mother died in childbirth,” Marcus said conversationally, “where did you grow up, if your parents were both dead?”

“I don't want to talk, do you understand?” Formosus snapped. He saw Marcus' face fall. The boy had only been trying to distract him from his sorrow. “My aunt brought me up,” he answered softly, “my Mother's sister. She had two daughters, and her husband died early. She took me in when my parents died. I miss her, I still do.”

“Perhaps she is still alive?” Marcus guessed.

“She's dead, everyone is dead and now Master is dead too.” Formosus sobbed and clutched at his neck. His hand folded around the key hanging by the chain at his neck. For a minute, the significance failed to register. Then suddenly he sat up. It all became clear, his Master's irritability because Formosus hadn't been listening properly; the Senator had known what would happen and was trying to warn him.

“I'm sorry,” Marcus said, but Formosus grabbed him by the shoulder.

“I need a horse,” the Celt demanded, “but first I need someone to fetch something from Master's house. How could I forget everything?”

“What are you talking about?” Marcus looked at the Celt as if he had gone mad. Formosus tried to calm down.

“My Master left me instructions in case I should be left alone. He left me two scrolls in a cupboard in the library. I need them. He also told me to go somewhere.” Formosus hesitated. He did not want to disclose his destination to Marcus. It was not that he didn't trust the sculptor; rather, he was afraid that the youth would try to follow him if he knew where he was going.

“He left you instructions?There is no way of getting into your Master's house,” Marcus said firmly. Formosus thought for a moment.

“Do you know Senator Titus Cassius' house? On the Via Appia?” Marcus nodded.

“It is one of the biggest houses in Rome, everyone knows it,” he confirmed.

“Could you take a note there? To his slave Junius?”

“I think so,” Marcus answered hesitantly, “but how will I know Junius?”

“Oh you'll know him,” Formosus almost smiled, “he's the prettiest and vainest man you've ever seen.”

*

“Well?” The alarmingly sweet-faced slave who came to the door at Marcus' enquiry looked arrogantly down his perfectly shaped nose at him. He had a smattering of attractive freckles, a full mouth and dreamy, blue-green eyes that seemed to wander off into higher spheres. “I'm Junius, what is it that you want to give to me?”

“This,” Marcus thrust the parchment at him, “and I'm to wait for an answer.”

“All right, messenger boy,” Junius leaned elegantly against the wall and unrolled the parchment, “then wait.”

He read, then he looked up and grinned at Marcus.

“Good news,” he said, “very good news. I'm sorry, sculptor, for mistaking you for a messenger. I'm coming with you.”

*

“Get up!” it was evening, and in the half-light, Formosus couldn't see who was kicking him impatiently with his foot. He had been dozing again, the aftershock had made him drowsy, and he couldn't seem to stay awake. His slumber had been full of unhappy dreams and visions. “Wake up!” Formosus drew back towards the wall. Had the older sculptor found him? Would he hand him over to the Cohortes Urbanae? His eyes adjusted, and he saw who it was, standing in the half-light, looking down at him impatiently. “There's no time to spare,” Junius insisted, “I need to get you out of here.”

“Junius?” Formosus asked, still sluggish from the sleep that had overcome him.

“Well, who else?” Junius crouched down to get a good look at his friend. “You stink, Formosus, and you look like a slave from the country. You need a shave and some new clothes. Now come along, I've got a cart out on the street, you can hide in the back under the straw.”

“Where are you taking me?” Formosus protested as Junius grabbed him by the arm, “I need you to get something out of Master's house for me, and then I need a horse! I have to go.”

“Getting something out of your Master's house will need some planning.” Junius pulled the taller man to his feet and pushed him out of the barn and into the courtyard. “The young sculptor is keeping watch on the street.” Junius grinned. “You've got him under your spell, haven't you? He didn't stop talking about you and asking questions all the way here.”

“I hope you didn't tell him anything,” Formosus scowled, “where are you taking me?”

“To my Master's house of course,” Junius said, “he is the only one who has a chance of getting whatever you need out of the library.”

If Titus Cassius was surprised to see Junius enter his rooms with a very dishevelled and distraught-looking Formosus, he showed no sign of it. Although Quintus Aelius' slave was not to his personal taste, as he preferred men of the puer delicatus, or pretty boy type of which his own Junius was a prime example, he had to admit that even wearing workman's clothes and with a day's worth of stubble on his chin, Formosus was an astonishingly handsome sight. Although he had tendency to slouch and scowl, the man was extremely attractive. Titus Cassius sighed. He felt bound by his friendship, both to the murdered Quintus Aelius as well as to his bossy but loyal slave Junius, to help Formosus.  
“Junius, I see you have found him,” Titus Cassius addressed his slave. “Formosus, I will do what I can to help you, in honour of your Master. He would have expected it of me. Obviously you are not the murderer, despite the Will.” Formosus looked blank.

“The Will, Sir?” Formosus repeated.

“Does he not know of the Will?” Titus Cassius turned to Junius.

“He's been hiding in a barn all day, Master,” Junius said with a hint of disdain, “I dare say he has no idea of anything that has been said or done today.”

“Did Quintus Aelius not tell you about the Will he made yesterday?” Titus Cassius insisted. Formosus eyes widened.

“No, Sir,” he answered, “but he gave me two scrolls to put into the cupboard in the library. He told me that they were for me, and that one of them contains instructions for me to follow, should my Master,” here Formosus' voice shook, “should he not be here to protect me. He was angry because I was not listening properly. Now I understand why he was so strange. If only I had not gone out to run this morning, he would still be alive!” Overcome with grief, Formosus buried his face in his hands.

“You are useless, Countryman,” Junius said sharply, but his hand rested comfortingly on Formosus' shoulder, “pull yourself together now, you've had a whole day to wallow in your misery. We have to do something. Master, we need those scrolls from the cupboard in the library. How can we get them?”

“I will go and pay Quintus Aelius' widow a visit tomorrow,” Titus Cassius answered slowly, “and devise some reason to go to the library. I don't want to alert Camilla to the fact that her husband left something for his slave; she might not like it. Quintus Aelius complained often enough that she was terribly jealous of Formosus. I suggest you come too, Junius, if all else fails I will distract the widow while you retrieve the scrolls.”

Thank you, Sir,” Formosus sniffed, “what is in the Will?”

“You're upset and tired, Formosus,” Titus Cassius replied, “you can see it for yourself tomorrow.”

“Go to sleep, Countryman,” Junius grumbled. He was beginning to regret offering to share his bed Formosus because his friend was so upset and was also unaccustomed to sleeping on his own. The other Celt was very tall and took up altogether too much space. He stole the bedclothes, tossed and turned and kept crying quietly but irritatingly. “I don't know why Quintus Aelius put up with you.” This provoked another sob. “I'm sorry,” Junius sighed and pulled the other man close, “but please, go to sleep.” Formosus buried his face in Junius shoulder, wiping his nose there in the process, to Junius' great disgust.  
Junius would have hated to have had to share a bed with his Master every night as Formosus had done. He enjoyed having his own room, and only spent the night in Titus Cassius' bedchamber when he was required to. Junius was extremely fond of his Master, but he didn't love him as Formosus had loved Quintus Aelius. Junius didn't mind sleeping with Titus Cassius, although he was relieved that his far older Master, grown fat and sluggish, had become less interested in the pleasures of the bed than in those that the table had to offer. Junius preferred to sleep with women; he wasn't really attracted to men at all. He felt Formosus relax in his arms and heaved a sigh of relief. Perhaps his poor friend would fall back to sleep now, it was the only reprieve from his grief that he had. Despite his gruff manner, Junius understood and sympathised with Formosus. He had felt the sting of bereavement himself, and knew how much it hurt.  
*

“Don't be unreasonable about this,” Quintus Aelius had said, “I need an heir. I am the last male representative of my family, and it is imperative that I do not let the family line die out. I promised my father on his death bed that I would father a son to continue the family.”

“I don't care,” Formosus spat, turning on his heel and storming down the corridor. He would have liked to have grabbed the vase that was standing on the table in the vestibule and thrown it against the wall in rage, but he knew that he was already going too far with his outburst as it was.

“Come back here this instant!” Quintus Aelius roared after the slave. His Master's tone of voice stopped Formosus in his rebellious tracks. Reluctantly and with his head hanging, he turned and retraced his steps back to where his Master was standing. He anticipated a smack, or perhaps this time his Master really would beat him. Instead, Quintus Aelius put his arms around him and pulled him close. “I realise that this is upsetting for you,” the Roman said gently, caressing Formosus' hair, “but I swear that nothing will change between us. There will just be another person in the house. You aren't forced to have anything to do with her.”

“You will share her bed,” Formosus mumbled resentfully.

“To produce an heir,” Quintus Aelius corrected firmly, “not for pleasure or affection as we share a bed. And I will always return to you, you will not have to sleep alone.”

“She will have her own ideas,” Formosus growled.

“The woman I have selected is a widow,” Quintus Aelius explained, “not a girl in love for the first time. She is a sensible person and her late husband was a brave and virtuous man who I knew well. She will be glad to have a home and a husband and will not make demands beyond that. She is to provide me with an heir; that is all.” But the minute that he first saw his new Mistress, Formosus knew that his Master had miscalculated badly.

Formosus kept out of Camilla's way. When Quintus Aelius brought his new wife home and introduced her to the servants and slaves of the house as their new mistress, the Celt could see the glimmer of infatuation in the woman's eyes. They were fixed on his Master. Formosus could tell that, even if Quintus Aelius had married for practical reasons, Camilla had not. She was in love with his Master and he hated her for it. She was also very beautiful, a fact that Quintus Aelius had not bothered to mention, and that alarmed Formosus even more.  
When the woman was introduced to him, it was obvious that Quintus Aelius had already told her about his relationship to the slave.  
“So you are Formosus,” she said disdainfully, “you are a pretty creature. I have nothing against the fact that my husband has a whore, but we may have to find other duties for you now that I am here.” Formosus bridled at being called a whore, he was his Master's concubinus, a respected position within the household, and not a common whore, but he did not dare to defy his mistress openly, he had a sneaking feeling that it was just what she was trying to provoke.

“Yes, Mistress,” he agreed, keeping his eyes lowered. When Quintus Aelius joined them, her manner changed.

“I see you have met Formosus,” the Roman said, and the slave could hear the affection in his Master's voice.

“He is well named,” Camilla replied sweetly, smiling up at her husband and batting her eyelashes. Formosus wanted very badly to shout with rage and smash something, but as usual he swallowed his emotions and kept very still. Quintus Aelius reached over and caressed Formosus' unruly hair, his usual gesture of affection.

“He is so much more than just beautiful,” the Roman said proudly. Formosus heard Camilla's sudden intake of breath hiss sharply, and couldn't quite suppress a triumphant smile.

By the time Quintus Aelius returned from his bride's bed, back to his own bedchamber and to Formosus, the slave had worked himself up into an unholy rage. He was pacing the room and clenching his fists when the Roman opened the door. He glared at his Master, and turned his back.  
“Formosus.” His Master spoke in a low, firm voice. Formosus wouldn't answer. He felt his Master's fingers slide under his nightshirt and probe between his buttocks. “Why are you not prepared?”

“I thought Master would spend the night with his new bride.” Formosus spat out the words.

“I told you that I would always return to you. I told you that you would not have to sleep alone on my new wife's account.” Quintus Aelius' voice was calm, Formosus couldn't tell whether he was angry or not. “I order you to turn around.” Slowly the slave obeyed.

Quintus Aelius was not angry, or if he was his face showed no sign of it. He looked pensive, and a little sad.  
“Master,” Formosus said miserably. He often used the word to make his mood known.

“Take your nightshirt off,” Quintus Aelius commanded quietly, “And lay down on the bed on your stomach.” Not knowing quite what to expect and how to correctly gauge his Master's mood, Formosus did as he was ordered with some trepidation. Soon he felt his Master's oily fingers enter him, preparing him as slowly and as carefully as he had the very first time he had penetrated him. Quintus Aelius made love to him carefully and gently, but he didn't say the words that would have lessened the pain in Formosus' breast.


	9. Chapter 9

Marcus ran his hands over the smooth, cold marble. He had helped Formosus to reach his friends, but he hadn't liked doing it. His reasons were purely selfish. He had hoped that he could have kept the slave with him for a while longer, could have comforted him, fed him, grown closer to him. Doggedly, the sculptor kept chipping away at the marble image that had already begun to take shape. He had the clay model, but it was rough and raw to the touch. The smooth marble was much more like Formosus' unblemished skin. He ran his hand down what was to become the statue's back and buttocks. Although the Senator who had commissioned the statue was dead and he would never be paid, Marcus was determined to finish his work. The statue would belong to him as the man in whose image it would be made never could.

Despite his strong feelings, Marcus had no illusions about Formosus. The Celt had kissed him, that much was true, he had talked to him and seemed to trust him up to a point. Perhaps he had been curious to find out what it would be like to kiss a man who was not his master. But when the sculptor had seen how Formosus had broken down when he heard of the Senator's death, he had known that the Celt loved his Master, despite his doubts and mistrust. Quintus Aelius had owned more than just Formosus' body; he had owned his heart and his soul as well.  
The sculptor had never been in love before. He had enjoyed male companions and and very occasionally discreet bedfellows, but he had never felt about anyone the way he felt about the Celt. It was not just the fact that the man was sexually attractive and that Marcus had been able to contemplate his beautiful body at his leisure. There was something mysterious about Formosus, his unwillingness to talk about himself and his origins, his strange, changing moods and the depth of his emotions. Marcus could easily see why the slave had caught the Emperor Nero's eye. He wondered what had happened to Formosus in the Golden House. It just added to the fascination that Formosus was a damaged and tortured soul, unable to trust anyone. Walking around the unfinished statue, Marcus stopped in front of the image. He reached his lips up to where the face would one day be and where the beginnings of lips, eyes and nose were already discernible. Before he could press his mouth against the cold, hard, stone a voice rang out.  
“Marcus! What are you doing here? You should be working on the commission for the new Amphitheatre!” It was his father's voice, and Marcus thanked the gods that he could not see what his son had been about to do, shielded as he was from view by the beginnings of the statue.

“Coming, Father,” the young man answered docilely. It wasn't worth getting into an argument with his father about, and the less his father saw of Marcus' work on the statue the better. As they wouldn't be getting paid for it, it wasn't worth finishing in his father's view. Lucius was a businessman first and an artist second.

*

“I don't think the slave did it.” Camilla flung back her long, dark hair. If she was counting on bewitching Titus Cassius, she was barking up the wrong tree.

“Highly unlikely,” Titus Cassius agreed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Junius slip out of the door on his way to the library.

“I can't believe that Quintus Aelius left most of his estate to his slave,” Camilla continued, “still, with the slave a fugitive I dare say that the Will will be declared invalid. No doubt he will be tortured and crucified regardless of whether he is my husband's murderer or not, after all he is a fugitive.”

“Legally that is not quite correct,” Titus Cassius contradicted, “as my dear friend granted his slave manumission upon his death, Formosus is now a freedman and as such cannot be a fugitive slave. He might well be a fugitive from justice though, but that remains to be seen.”

“Men like yourself, Titus Cassius, are so clever,” Camilla simpered.

“I am flattered,” the Senator answered, feeling anything but and hoping that Junius would reappear soon. It was not the first idiotic situation he had let the slave manoeuvre him into. He was no longer a young man, he was insanely rich and powerful, and he was a Senator. And here he was playing games at the behest of his own slave. He sighed but a slight smile played around his lips. Without Junius, the Senator thought, he would have been dead long ago, bored to death and into an early grave.

Junius enjoyed any kind of deviousness or manipulation. He was used to sneaking along passages and hiding behind curtains when visiting his innumerable girl friends, secure in the knowledge that whatever scrapes he would get into, his Master would get him out of them. But today it was not a game. He was acutely aware of the danger hanging over Formosus' head, and he assumed that the scroll which was hidden alongside the Will would be very important to getting his friend out of his difficulties alive. The Will itself was of little consequence; it had been witnessed by five Senators and its contents were well known all over Rome by now. Wills were considered public documents and declared openly, and Quintus Aelius testament was now doubly interesting. The Romans relished a good murder story just as they enjoyed the games in the Amphitheatre, and details were passed around, distorted and embellished until the next scandal drew people's attention.  
Being in the Senator's house was strange. Quintus Aelius had always been larger than life and although his influence was still strong, something had changed with the passing of the Senator. Junius had always been half afraid of him, he was not jovial and good-natured like his own Master, he was stern, forbidding and seldom smiled. He knew that Formosus was very fond of his Master, fonder than he realised himself. Formosus was not very good at analysing his own feelings, he was very much like Quintus Aelius in that respect. They were two idiots, Junius had often thought, living side by side, deeply in love with one another and unable to tell each other.  
But Formosus had not always been so reticent. As a youth he had been high-spirited, trusting and cheerful. Five years ago, Formosus had been ill for several weeks and when Junius saw him again, he had changed. It was not just that he had become pale and thin from the illness; he recovered from that after a time. It was a change in his attitude, in his whole character, that compelled Junius to pester his fellow Celt until he managed to extract part of the truth from Formosus. Apparently he had accompanied Quintus Aelius to an audience with the Emperor Nero, who had immediately had the young man taken to his rooms where he did things to the slave that Formosus refused to speak of and Junius didn't really wish to know. He had seen Nero once from a distance and had instantly disliked what he saw. Formosus was adamant that his Master had done nothing to stop the guards from taking him and that he had not even been with him when he awoke after having been unconscious for three days. He accused Quintus Aelius of having been complicit with the Emperor's wishes in return for a seat in the Senate. Junius told his Master what Formosus had said, and Titus Cassius agreed that it was highly unlikely that Quintus Aelius had willingly traded his beloved and prized slave for a seat in the senate. Firstly, Quintus Aelius was an honourable man and not given to calculating and bartering for favours. Secondly, as representative of an old and noble family, he would have acquired a seat in the Senate at some point anyway. And thirdly, not only Formosus had changed after the incident with the Emperor. Quintus Aelius changed, too. He became anxious, all but locking Formosus up, afraid to let the slave out on his own and only very grudgingly allowing the man out in the mornings to run. He did not display the behaviour of a man who had willingly lent his slave to be used by another. Unfortunately, Quintus Aelius absolutely refused to talk of what had happened at the palace with even more vehemence than Formosus. He also refused to talk to Formosus about what had happened, apparently afraid of upsetting the slave even more.  
Thinking about Quintus Aelius made Junius doubly sad for Formosus. He slipped into the library, opened the cupboard and retrieved the box. Opening it carefully, he saw that it contained two scrolls. He hid the box in the folds of his cape, and carefully made his way back to the Atrium, where his Master was waiting for his sign.  
*

Formosus was nervous. He had been locked into Junius' room and cautioned not to go near the window. He was also warned about not making a sound. Presumably Titus Cassius' slaves were reliable and loyal, but directing the Cohortes Urbanae to the whereabouts of a suspected murderer might result in a handsome reward, and when money was involved, money a slave could use to purchase his or her freedom, Titus Cassius thought it wiser to trust no one. Formosus was forced to release his pent up energy by tiptoeing around the room and idly looking through Junius' belongings. The man was very vain, Formosus knew that, and his room was full of richly embroidered clothes, scented oils and expensive jewellery, all things that Formosus was not particularly interested in. There was also a collection of scrolls. Formosus looked through them and realised that most of them were accounts of the Roman campaign against Britannia. Formosus wondered how his countryman could bear to read them and put them away quickly. All he knew about Junius was that he belonged to the Trinovantes, one of the tribes which were more friendly to the Romans, and whose land bordered on Iceni territory to the south. He and Junius never discussed where they had come from, he had no idea how Junius had got to Rome. He did not know who he had lost and what he had endured on the way. Formosus had never wanted to know because anything that he found upsetting he preferred to push to the back of his mind and ignore. Well, he was confronted with tragedy now, there could be no escaping this time.

Formosus had already been informed of the contents of the Will by Titus Cassius that morning. He knew that he should be grateful and relieved that his Master had made ample provisions for him, but, apart from the fact that being under suspicion of his Master's murder meant that they were of no use to him, all the information did was to bring the Senator's death even more crushingly home to him. He was more interested in the instructions that his Master had left for him and he was itching to get away from Rome and retreat to the villa in Tibur. He had told no one that Quintus Aelius had ordered him to go to the villa, not even Junius. It was not that he didn't trust Junius, rather that he was sure that his friend would try to dissuade him from leaving Rome and the relative safety of Titus Cassius' house. But Formosus was determined to follow his Master's instructions, and if the Senator wanted him to go to Tibur, that was where he would head for.  
*

Quintus Aelius greets Formosus, he read,

my friend Formosus, if you are reading this then it is because I am for some reason not able to be at your side. Keep a clear head and do not panic. If you follow my instructions I hope that no harm will come to you, even if the worst has come to pass.

First and foremost, follow the orders I gave to you verbally and keep the gold necklace safe. Carry my instructions out as soon as possible. Do not stay in Rome, even if it might seem to be the easier course of action; it is not.

Trust no one. Tell no one of your plans, not even those you think you can trust. Even the truest hearts can inadvertently betray you.

If you find yourself in trouble, turn to Titus Cassius. He will help you and he will not ask questions. But do not stay in Rome any longer than absolutely necessary.

When you reach your destination, you should find a letter I left for you there. Read it and do as it says. The less you know at this moment in time the better.

I have never betrayed your trust although I know you doubt me. I could not always protect you, but I tried. Now you must protect yourself.

In the event that I am dead at the time you are reading this, you will already know the contents of the Will. I have given you your freedom. For legal purposes you must maintain that you are thirty years old. I do not know how old you will be when you read this, but even if you are not yet thirty - and in truth I do not know exactly how old you are - no one can prove anything to the contrary. Provided you stick to your story, on the event of my death you will have become a freedman, and most of my estate is yours. Titus Cassius can help you organise this. But whatever the reason you are reading this, it is imperative that you first leave Rome and follow the verbal instructions I gave you.

Believe me, from the first time I saw you I put your safety above my own. I know you believe that I wronged you. I did not. I am not able to tell you what I feel, I doubt I ever shall, but I will write it and it may help to ease any pain you might be feeling. Te amo. Te amabo semper.

Formosus' eyes filled with tears. At first all he could comprehend were the last two sentences. I love you. I will love you always. Then he reread the letter. Keep a clear head. If you find yourself in trouble, turn to Titus Cassius. Formosus looked up, wiping his eyes.  
“Sir?” he said, “I do not understand my Master's meaning. It is as if the letter were written in code. Please help me.” Titus Cassius looked at Formosus levelly.

“I do not know the contents of the letter,” he answered seriously.

“Please read it, Sir,” Formosus begged. Titus Cassius kept his gaze on the Celt's face for a moment. “Junius, please leave the room,” he said without turning towards his slave.

“What?” Junius exclaimed, “but Master!”

“Do as I say,” Titus Cassius ordered quietly. Junius breathed in sharply, a retort on the tip of his tongue, but he obviously thought better of it. Grumbling very quietly under his breath, he left the room, closing the door behind himself with a little more force than was absolutely necessary. Titus Cassius smiled wistfully. “Junius does not take orders well, he is the son of a king, did you know that?”

Formosus shook his head. “We never speak of these things,” he answered.

“I know you don't,” Titus Cassius replied. “Junius was not born to be a slave.” He looked at Formosus curiously. “But then I believe that there is more to you than meets the eye also, am I right, child of the Iceni people?” Formosus flushed.

“I am not the son of a king,” he retorted.

“No,” Titus Cassius said thoughtfully, “no you are not. No matter. Let me see if I can shed some light on the contents of my dear, late friend's letter.”

Titus Cassius read the letter in silence, his double chin trembling somewhat; perhaps he was touched by the sentiments expressed therein, perhaps he was just as perplexed as Formosus. At the end, he looked up.  
“Your Master does not make his meaning very clear,” the Roman began, “it seems he purposely avoids speaking of some issues. But I can shed some light on parts of the letter.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Formosus sighed in relief.

“Your Master gave you some instructions to follow,” Titus Cassius held up his hand as Formosus opened his mouth to speak. “I do not wish to hear them,” he continued, “Quintus Aelius did not mean anyone apart from yourself to know them or he would have written them down. I assume they entail leaving Rome. I will make provisions for you to leave tomorrow very early. That is the most important part of the letter.”

“But I don't understand why he writes that I must be thirty, what does that mean?” Formosus complained.

“I can explain that,” the older man nodded, “I believe that Quintus Aelius did not expect this situation to arrive quite so soon. You are obviously nearer twenty than thirty, but as you are being hunted for your Master's murder, it is hardly of any consequence. The problem is this: since the time of Emperor Augustus it has been forbidden to grant manumission to a slave if the slave is under the age of thirty. So to set you free, your Master must assert that you are already thirty years old, do you understand?” Formosus nodded.

“But as I am a suspected murderer, I cannot be free anyway,” he added.

“Unless we can clear your name, as I am sure we shall,” Titus Cassius continued.

“But it seems that my Master knew he was in danger,” Formosus interrupted, “what happened to him? Who killed him?”

“Quintus Aelius did not confide in me,” Titus Cassius said patiently, “he was a very secretive man. I know that he feared some disaster would befall him, he even visited the augurs two days ago. I do not know exactly what or who he suspected would harm him.” The Roman rubbed his hands together. “Formosus, you will leave Rome as your Master ordered tomorrow morning. I will arrange for a horse, provisions and money for you. You will take the shortest route to the destination your Master selected. There you will find further instructions.” Titus Cassius' expression softened. “I and my fellow Senators, your Master's friends, will do everything in our power to find Quintus Aelius' murderer and bring this person to justice. When this has come to pass, and I firmly believe it will, you will live as a free and wealthy man wherever you choose, as your Master wished it. And now we should let Junius back in, I dare say his ear is almost stuck to the door by now.” Titus Cassius whipped the door open, and a very guilty looking slave almost fell into the room with it.

“Master knows me too well,” Junius grinned bashfully.


	10. Chapter 10

In the Year of Four Emperors, after Nero had been overthrown and had killed himself, Quintus Aelius rode with Formosus and four trusted guards from Rome to Tibur, where he had inherited a villa in the hills from his late father. He loved the family summer home, he had spent many a childhood summer there, free as a bird, running and riding through the aromatic herbs growing on the hillsides.  
One of the first skills he had taught Formosus, besides speaking and writing in Latin, was to ride a horse properly. The Celts used chariots pulled by horses for warfare and rode little. Formosus liked to ride as he liked all physical activity. Although he was riding the largest horse in the Senator's stables, his long legs hung down the animal's sides, giving him a slightly ungainly air. Quintus could not quite suppress a smile at the sight.  
Formosus scowled when he noticed the Senator's amusement.  
“Julius Antonius Ventillius has a proper horse,” the slave grumbled.

“You mean that huge brute of a stallion? It's unmanageable. A lovely creature though, a beautiful chestnut colour.” Quintus Aelius' mouth curved into a smile. He was serious by nature, and had become even more so over the last year. He rarely laughed. But he did enjoy aggravating Formosus.

“Master is not comparing me to a horse,” the slave growled, trying to pull his legs up so that his feet did not dangle quite so comically down the horse's sides.

“Only your colouring,” Quintus Aelius mocked gently, “and perhaps your size. Not of course your temperament.”

“Master,” Formosus said tersely. Quintus had to remind himself that Formosus was not much past twenty years old, and still took himself very seriously. The Celt was obviously enjoying himself despite his Master's gentle teasing; he was looking appreciatively around at the wide expanse of the Campania, with the Sabine Hills blueish and shimmering in the distance. For some reason it was very important to Quintus that Formosus should like the place that he connected with his childhood more than any other; the villa at Tibur and the surrounding landscape were a source of intense joy to the Senator and he hoped to pass his love of the area on to Formosus.

In fact, Quintus Aelius was relieved that his relations with Formosus were approaching normalcy after the events in the late emperor Nero's palace. It took months of patience before the boy would allow his Master anywhere near him. Quintus knew that Formosus blamed him for what had happened; indeed he blamed himself. But neither of them could talk about it. Luckily the Celt was a young man with healthy urges that at some point helped him overcome his fear and repulsion. After his initial attempts at repairing their physical relationship when the boy had healed had been repelled, Quintus had waited to see if Formosus would resume them of his own accord. He did, but it took months of gentle coaxing, and the slave's resentment was almost palpable.  
Quintus longed to tell him that, after Formosus had been ripped from his arms, Nero's guards had held him back at the emperor's bidding. Nero had told him that if he dared to go after the slave, he would have the boy killed, crucified for all to see. He had Quintus Aelius thrown out of the palace. Two nights and days he waited outside the gates of the Golden House until Formosus was delivered back to him, broken, bleeding, naked and unconscious. For a week, Quintus did not leave his side while his Greek doctor nursed the slave back to health. When Formosus regained consciousness, Quintus was not there, that much was true. He was rallying support to have Nero ousted from the palace. A few days later he was elected into the Senate. Not Nero, but a group of Senators, who knew and trusted him and supported his plans to rid Rome of Nero had secretly offered him the appointment. Of course, the Senate elected him unanimously. He came from an old, aristocratic family and had been destined for high office practically from birth. But Formosus knew nothing of this and Quintus chose not to enlighten him. Formosus assumed that Quintus had been appointed by the emperor to join the Senate.  
The Roman found it impossible to talk of his feelings, he had been taught that they had to be controlled at all times, and to excuse himself would have seemed like an admisssion of guilt. And Quintus felt guilty. He had taken the boy away from his home and his family, had sworn to keep him safe and he had failed him dramatically. He knew that he should talk to Formosus, but he couldn't. The Senator was also too steeped in Roman mores to overcome the fact that he was the master and Formosus the slave. Theirs would never be a meeting of equals, how ever much Quintus, deep down inside, wished for it. He still loved the Celt, more than he could have put into words and more than he would ever admit to himself.  
“Look, Formosus,” Quintus Aelius pointed into the distance, “the river Anio. We will follow the river into the hills and up to the falls.”  
“Is that where the villa is, Master?” Formosus asked. Not just the riding made him feel sore.

“The villa is a little above the falls,” Quintus said, “perhaps another two hours. Do you need a rest?”

“No, Master,” Formosus said bravely, “I want to see the villa. I would prefer us to carry on.”

It was shady in the wooded hills, and the Senator's heart jumped to see the familiar places. They reminded him of his recently deceased parents, who he missed, and of the bliss of his childhood and youth. His father had been a kind man, unusually approachable for a Roman, and his parents had been devoted to one another, their mutual affection a source of amusement to their friends and acquaintances. Romans were rarely demonstrative of their feelings, and mocked what they saw as sentimentality in others. Quintus' older sister, who he dearly loved, was similarly affectionate, but Quintus saw himself as a typical Roman, aloof, very much aware of appropriate behaviour and class distinctions. But deep down, although he did not realise it, he was as capable of as sincere and devoted affection as his parents had been.  
Formosus breathed in sharply.  
“The smell,” he said.

“Pine trees, thyme and oreganum,” Quintus smiled.

“I have never been to a place more beautiful,” Formosus whispered, and he was uncharacteristically quiet, looking around in awe, until they came to the falls of the Anio river, crashing down the rocks near the bridge to the town of Tibur.

“See?” Quintus pointed above the falls, where there was a round, collonaded temple. “That is the Temple of Vesta, dedicated to the water nymph Albunea, the Sibyl of Tibur.”

“Like the Temple of Vesta in the Forum?” Formosus asked, fascinated.

“Similar,” Qunintus agreed, “the Senate sometimes consults her for her prophecies. We could visit her, my father sometimes did.” Formosus pulled a face.

“I think I would rather not know what the future holds, Master,” he answered.

“Why not? It can be a guide for future descisions.” Quintus frowned. He shared the Roman obsession with fortune-telling and did not understand the slave's reluctance.

“It might be something that I cannot change and must live in dread of,” Formosus responded darkly.

“Oh nonsense,” Quintus laughed. But the words would come back to haunt him.

The new emperor Galba was a fool. Heavy handed, guided by avaricious advisors and cruel in retribution, he brought no peace to Rome after Nero's demise. He side-stepped the Senate and punished his detractors ruthlessly. Quintus was sure that, given enough rope, the coarse and uncouth ruler would hang himself. At this moment in time, dismouting at the villa that he regarded as his true home in the world, he couldn't have cared less about Rome and the machinations of its citizens.  
“Ugh!” Formosus groaned lustfully as Quintus buried his teeth in the Celt's long neck. His skin smelled of the thyme growing on the ground under them, the aromatic oils released by their bodies' writhing pressure on the tiny leaves.  
“Harder,” Formosus growled deep in his throat. He could be quite demanding, which amused Quintus. Right from the beginning, the Roman had been delighted that the Celt he had made his captive so obviously enjoyed his attentions. Quintus though, had been doubly careful not to be too rough after what had happened in the Golden Palace. They had never spoken about the events that had taken place there, but they didn't have to. Quintus had seen and catalogued Formosus' injuries and had a fairly good idea of the cruel mistreatment his slave had been subjected to. The only thing that had saved the boy's life had been his good health, his youth, and the fact that at some point he lost consciousness and with that his potential to sate Nero's sick und unnatural urges. He had probaby lain somewhere alone for several hours before anybody thought of returning him to his owner. By some miracle there were no lasting injuries, save the ones that could not be seen from the outside. So Quintus made love carefully despite his lover's impatience.

It was with the taste of his Master's mouth on his lips that Formosus awoke with a start. He was lying in Junius' bed, and now that the brief reprieve that sleep had afforded him was past, the present came crashing down on him. All that was left for him to do now, save for joining his Master in death, was to follow his orders and, if possible, find his murderer and exact revenge. In a strange, sad way he looked forward to returning to Tibur, hoping that some vestige of his Master would be lingering there, together with his memories of happier times.  
“Master says you should leave before daybreak,” Junius cautioned, “there is something happening in the city, it is no longer safe. Master is considering leaving, too. He has a house in Ostia, near the sea. He is talking of us going there for a time.”

“But why? Is it because he helped me?” Formosus sat up.

“I doubt it,” Junius said, “but he won't tell me. I think it has something to do with your Master's murder, but I don't know. You must get on your way before daybreak, a horse is saddled and your bags are packed, you must leave while you can.”

“Why don't you leave now then, if your Master considers Rome unsafe?” Formosus asked.

“He wants to be present at your Master's funeral, he will deliver the eulogy in the Forum,” Junius said briefly, “now get up and get dressed before the sun comes up.”

“I wish I could at least be there,” Formosus mumbled, sinking back into despondency at the thought of his Master's funeral rites.

“You will serve him best if you follow his orders,” Junius retorted sharply, “up!”

The horse standing saddled and bridled in the courtyard, carrying saddlebags stuffed full of food, was a large, long-legged animal that would suit him well, Formosus decided. The house was still asleep and Junius had prepared the horse himself. Only he and Titus Cassius were there to see Formosus off.  
“Today I will make sure your Master gets the funeral he deserves,” Titus Cassius said quietly.

“He will go to the Elysian Fields, will he not?” Formosus asked.

“I am sure he will, Formosus, if the judges of the Underworld so decide.” Titus patted the taller man's shoulder.

“Do you think he has already drunk the water of Lethe and forgotten me?” Formosus insisted.

“I am sure his heart will always remember you,” Titus Cassius answered, “now go. You owe it to my friend to do as he told you and to stay safe.”

“Get moving, you big idiot,” Junius said gruffly, pushing the other man. Formosus hugged him but Junius brushed him off impatiently. “Don't squeeze the air out of my lungs,” he chided, but his voice sounded choked and his eyes were unnaturally bright. “We will meet again. May Andraste keep you safe and grant success to all your endeavours.”

Reluctantly Formosus mounted the horse that was standing, waiting patiently. Titus Cassius handed him a leather pouch.

“Keep it safe,” he warned. Formosus heard the jingling of coins.

“I can't accept...” he began.

“You must,” Titus Cassius interrupted, “I have enough. Wherever you are going, as soon as you get into the open, you should leave the road and try to stay under cover as much as possible. Beware of highway robbers, also of mercenaries hunting for fugitives, there may be some looking for you. Be vigilant. When you leave Rome be careful of the gates, there will be soldiers patrolling them.” Formosus nodded.

“Thank you,” he answered.

“A word of warning,” Titus Cassius added, “if you are stopped, tell no one that you are a Celt . You speak Latin like a Roman, you need not mention that you are a slave. No one will question it if you tell them you are a freedman, or even a Roman citizen. Vale, Formosus, may we meet again.”

The Celt lifted his hand in greeting, and without looking back, spurred the horse on, rode through the gate of Titus Cassius' house and into the quiet, dark street outside. One of the largest roads leading to and from Rome, the Via Appia, was the last place Formosus wanted to be. Luckily he had visited Titus Cassius many times and knew his way around the area. He threaded his mount though narrow streets until he found a road leading towards the east which would take him out of Rome and straight towards the Sabine Hills and Tibur.

There were few people on the streets, and those who were about were not interested in a lone figure on a horse; there were very late revellers, mostly drunk, the occasional beggar and two prostitutes, tired after a night's work. None of the Vigiles, who watched over Rome at night, were to be seen. Perhaps they were all on their way back home, while the Cohortes Urbanae were not yet on patrol.  
Formosus continued on his way slowly. The biggest difficulty he faced would be the fortification around Rome, the Servian Wall. On his way to Tibur he would have to pass through the Porta Esquilina, after which he would be on the Via Tiburtina which led straight to Tibur and the villa. The gate was heavily guarded, not only the Cohortes Urbanae and the Vigiles kept watch there, but also the elite Praetorian Guard. Formosus shivered. South of the gate were the remains of Nero's Golden House, already partially destroyed by Vespasian, and now the site of the new Flavian Amphitheatre. Quintus had taken Formosus to watch Nero's palace being stripped of its marble and golden facade, it gave them both grim satisfaction to watch the process.  
In the early light of dawn, Formosus could already see the single arch of the gate. To the left he noticed the figures of three men, Vigiles he guessed by their dress, lolling against the wall and chatting idly. He drew his cloak around himself tightly. The men might have his description, and anyway, he did not want to draw attention to his appearance. Even at the best of times his looks made him the recipient of unwanted attentions and proposals. It was for precisely this reason that his Master had not wanted him to go out alone. But in the half light, his body shrouded in a cloak, Formosus felt fairly safe. The men looked up briefly when they heard the sound of the horse's hooves, but Formosus kept his leisurely pace and they looked away, resuming their conversation.  
Formosus had just passed through the arch when he looked up. A mounted figure rode to block his way, a member of the Praetorian Guard to judge by his clothing. The Celt's heart sank. At least the man was alone. He fingered the sword he was wearing under the cloak. The Praetorian Guard were well trained, it would be suicide to attempt to attack one of their members. The man was tall and broad, he had thick, light brown hair and in the half-light, Formosus could see his eyes glint. He rode closer to Formosus until he could look the other man in the face, then he pulled the Celt's hood back. He contemplated Formosus' face with a slight smile. Reaching out his hand, he touched the Celt's lips. Then he smiled broadly.  
“Suck my cock,” he said, grabbing the reins of Formosus mount and leading him into the shadows below the wall.


	11. Chapter 11

“Slowly.” Formosus felt his head drawn back gently. “There is no need to choke, don't take more than you feel comfortable with.” He heard his Master groan.“By Jupiter, you are good at this, have you done it before?” Formosus shook his head from side to side. He pushed forward again, determined to take in more of his Master's member. When it hit the back of his throat, he gagged again and pulled back. Then forward again, slower, relaxing the muscles in his throat. The head slipped down his throat easily this time. Formosus swallowed, causing his Master to moan in pleasure. He felt his Master come down the back of his throat. Slowly he pulled off, closing his lips around his Master's long, thick organ and sucking gently. His Master's head fell against the back of his chair. Formosus released his Master's penis and looked up expectantly. The Roman's eyes were still closed in bliss, his mouth half opened. Formosus had never seen anyone as beautiful as his Master, in the last throes of sexual ecstasy, his head thrown back and the dark curls sticking to the sweat on his forehead. He opened his deep brown eyes a slit, focussed on Formosus and smiled. “I think you are trying to kill me,” he chuckled.  
“Oh, no, Master,” Formosus responded, “only to please you.”

“You certainly succeeded.” The Roman sat up straight and pulled up his underwear. “Come and sit on my lap.” Formosus scrambled up from the floor and sat sideways on his Master's lap, his long legs dangling. The Roman's strong hand pushed its way between Formosus thighs und under the waistband of his underwear. “You enjoyed yourself, it seems?” Slowly he began to stroke Formosus' erection. The boy could hardly keep still, squirming on his Master's lap and pushing into his hand. His release came hard and fast.

“Master,” he sighed, reverently.

*

Unresistingly, Formosus let the Praetorian Guard lead his horse into the dark shadows, away from the gate and close to the wall. If he made a fuss, more guards were sure to come. If he tried to struggle, the guard could easily hurt or kill him. He had no idea what to make of any of this. If the guard had wanted to arrest him, he could have already done so, called the Vigiles lounging on the other side of the wall and had them take him away. Instead the man had propositioned him.

Formosus had been propostioned before, he had heard lewd remarks made behind his back and to his face, but never quite as blatantly and unexpectedly as this. It was almost as if the Guard knew him. Formosus though was absolutely sure that he had no idea who the other man was. He stole a look at the Guard. He was tall, broad and handsome with light hair and eyes; his exact colouring was impossible to see in the dark. Of course, as a suspected murderer people might be looking for someone of Formosus' description, but on the other hand, looking for criminals was hardly the work of the elite Praetorian Guard, whose main duties were to guarantee the safety of the Emperor himself, and of Rome.  
“Come on then,” the Guard said impatiently, sliding from his horse, “what are you waiting for?” Briefly Formosus contemplated giving his horse the spurs and riding away as fast as he could, but the Guard would be sure to follow him, and others besides. If he gave the man what he wanted, perhaps he would let him go on his way. Slowly he got off his horse and stood facing the Guard. Despite his military dress, the Guard looked relaxed and almost friendly. Formosus knew that the Guard had his weapons hidden under his clothing, as was the custom with the Praetorian soldiers. But the Roman currently facing him was quite obviously not interested in displaying the weapons under his toga, but something rather different. The Guard put a hand on Formosus' shoulder, urging the Celt to his knees, lifting his own tunica and pushing down his underwear to display an impressive erection. Looking up at the Roman one more time in the hope of comprehending his predicament, Formosus sighed and wrapped his lips around the organ displayed in front of him. As he pushed his mouth forward to swallow the head of the penis already resting on his lips, the Guard groaned and threaded his hand through Formosus' hair, stroking gently. The hand on his head felt good, and the Guard's moaning was having an effect on Formosus, much as he hated himself for it. He reminded himself that the Guard might be quite capable of arresting him or killing him after he had got what he wanted. Instead the stranger groaned: “You really are good, I knew you would be!” puzzling Formosus even more because the man obviously knew who he was. The Roman came deep down his throat with a sigh, and withdrew slowly, his breath uneven and shallow. Formosus looked up and saw the Guard's eyes on him. “Aren't you going to get up?” he asked. Formosus rose to his feet and took a step back and towards his horse. “Where are you going?” The Roman grabbed his arm.  
“I need to leave,” Formosus stuttered.

“Don't you want me to repay the compliment?” the Guard asked, looking mystified. “I can use my hand if you would prefer.” He made a grab between Formosus legs that the Celt managed to sidestep.

“No I...” Formosus hesistated, “I'm all right.”

“Why are you here if you don't want to be pleasured?” the Guard asked.

“I'm on my way out of the city,” Formosus explained, trying not to give anything away.

“I don't blame you,” the Guard said darkly, “they are looking for you.” Then he paused. “You mean that you didn't come to this spot on purpose?”

“I was just leaving through the gate,” Formosus said, feeling more than ever that he was missing something important. The Guard threw back his head and laughed.

“No wonder you looked at me like that,” he smiled, “I thought you were weak-headed. You have no idea about this place, do you?” Formosus shook his head slowly.

“I do not know what you mean,” he told the Guard.

“After dark, men who are looking to pleasure one another meet here, hardly anyone leaves the city at night,” the Guard grinned, “I assumed you were one of us.”

“I didn't know,” Formosus responded, shaking his head.

“I would say that I am sorry, but I'm not,” the guard said sincerely, “you are very skilled. I thought you very beautiful when I saw you first, but you look better awake and whole.”

“I don't know you!” Formosus hissed.

“But I know you,” the Guard answered. “You were unconscious when I saw you. I was on duty in Nero's palace when I found you lying on the floor in the corridor after he had had his way with you. One of the other Guards told me that your Master was waiting outside the palace gates. He had been there for two days and nights, without sleeping. Nero threw him out because he tried to stop him from taking you. So I wrapped you in my cloak and brought you to him. His face was wet with tears. Senator Quintus Aelius Aurelius was a fine man and a brave soldier.”

“I didn't kill him!” it broke out of Formosus. He was still trying to come to terms with what he had heard about his Master.

“I admit it looked bad for you at first,” the Guard continued, “seeing as you inherited nearly all your Master's wealth, but now it seems as if he might have been the victim of a conspiracy, or its focus, have you not heard?”

“I have been hiding, I have heard nothing,” Formosus explained.

“You are a Celt, are you not?” the Guard asked. Formosus remembered Titus Cassius' warning.

“No,” he said slowly.

“I know you are,” the Guard said. “You are right to leave Rome, it is not safe for you here.” Then he smiled. “You rewarded me for returning you to your Master, I thank you for that. We might meet again, friend. May the Gods watch over you and your skillful mouth.” On an impulse, Formosus leaned towards the other man and hugged him briefly.

“Thank you,” he whispered, “for bringing me to my Master. And for telling me that he was waiting for me. Vale.” The other man slapped his back. His eyes were very pale, they might have been blue or green, Formosus couldn't tell in the darkness.

“Take care, the roads are dangerous,” the Guard cautioned. Formosus mounted and rode away from Rome without looking back.

Formosus passed the last of the buildings and the burial grounds on the outskirts of Rome, then he left the road to one side, picking his way through the undergrowth. The roads outside Rome were fraught with danger. Highway robbers, rogue soldiers and slave hunters plagued the main routes to and from the city. Alone, Formosus would be in danger. He would have to sacrifice speed to vigilance, although he could hardly wait to get to the villa. What he expected to find there, he could not say. He was still intoxicated by what he had heard from the Guard, deliriously happy, but also full of guilt and sadness. Why had he doubted his Master, how could he have assumed that the man who had never treated him with anything less than love and respect could have abandoned him to his fate at Nero's palace? And why had Quintus never spoken? Regret that he had spent so much time resenting his Master and fretting about his situation battled with a fresh surge of love, affection and longing for the man he had loved and lost.  
It was light by the time Formosus came to a stream, winding its way across the Campania. He could see the Sabine Hills in the distance, and was put in mind of the many times he had gazed at them with his Master riding by his side, full of excitement at having the man for a few short days all to himself at the villa, away from the bustle, noise and heat of Rome. It seemed strange to be making that same journey without his Master, knowing that when he got to Tibur, he would be alone. Of all places it was the one that Formosus could least imagine existing without his Master's presence.  
Formosus slid off the horse to let her drink from the stream. He crouched down next to the animal to wash his face in the cool water and bathe his wrists. It would be a warm day, and a tiring ride. It might be late that night before he got to Tibur, which was just as well. He didn't want to provoke any kind of interest or attention. The villa was situated well away from the town so it was unlikely that anyone would see him, also, news from Rome travelled slowly to the remote area, if at all, so he would probably be safe there for a while at least. Most importantly, his Master had left him instructions there. Just the thought that his Master had planned ahead for him made Formosus feel safer. He was not used to being without his Master's guidance. He had been scarcely more than a child when the Roman had taken him to Rome, and somehow, despite his twenty-four years, he was still dependent on the other man. Perhaps it was time to grow up.  
Of course it was a mistake to sit down on the grassy bank. The morning sun was already strong, and Formosus felt drowsy. He had only meant to close his eyes for a moment, but he slept almost in the same second that his lids closed. He might have slept all day, but he was not alone, and not unnoticed. He woke in the worst possible way; someone was shaking him roughly. At first he was disoriented, but reason soon returned, and he opened his eyes in shock. He was supposed to be vigilant, and he was supposed to ride straight to Tibur.  
When he focused on the man grumbling at him to wake up and shaking his shoulders, it was with a mixture of relief and irritation.  
“You can't just sleep here,” Marcus said, “it's dangerous.”

“By all the Gods,” Formosus stuttered, still overcome with sleep, “how did you get here, Sculptor? And why?” He buried his head in his hands. It seemed that he just could not get rid of the young artist who had obviously taken such a great liking to him. Formosus gaped, unable for a moment to form coherent sentences.

“What are you doing?” the sculptor insisted, “do you not realise that you are in great danger? And who was that man?” The young man's voice became scolding and petulant, his still childlike features sullen.

“What man?” Formosus returned roughly, trying to think. Surely the foolish youth hadn't been following him through Rome in the middle of the night.

“You know very well who I mean,” Marcus shrilled, sounding for all the world like a jilted lover, “I mean the Praetorian Guard you pleasured outside the Servian Wall.” Formosus decided that it was wiser to ignore the younger man's outburst and focus on the important facts.

“Why were you following me and what are you doing here?”

“I am looking after you. Obviously you need help. You would have slept all day if I had not awoken you.” The young sculptor looked smug.

“I just closed my eyes for a minute,” Formosus retorted. “Well, now I am awake and you can go back to Rome. Vale.” Formosus got to his feet and turned his back on Marcus, taking hold of the horse's bridle.

“I'm coming with you,” Marcus said firmly. Formosus turned abruptly.

“You are going back to Rome, and I am going elsewhere,” he snarled. “My greetings to your father, who I remember fondly,” the Celt added snidely.

“You can't make me go back,” Marcus argued, “I shall just follow you.” Formosus rubbed a hand over his face.

“I know you mean well,” he said gently, trying a different tack, “but I am not allowed to let anyone know where I am going. The road is dangerous, it will be difficult enough as it is to look out for myself without having to look out for you, too. I thank you for saving me after my Master's murder, but if you feel even the slightest friendship for me, you must let me go now.”

“Friendship?” the sculptor huffed, “I love you, don't you understand that? And I will not leave your side. We will be safer together than if you were on your own. I can protect you.” Frustrated Formosus groaned and held his head.

“You are a child! How will you protect me? Please, just go home!”

“I am twenty-three, I have travelled to Greece, I am a grown man!” Marcus shouted.

“You cannot be twenty-three, you look barely eighteen,” Formosus scoffed, pushing the shorter man back and grabbing the reins of his horse. “That would make you almost as old as I am!”

“How old are you then?” Marcus asked curiously.

“Master says twenty-four, but I do not know. I am definitely older than you.” Formosus tried to mount the horse but was pulled back by the sculptor.

“You look older than twenty-four,” he said spitefully.

“At least I don't look like a child,” Formosus spat back, trying to pull away.

“Please let me come,” Marcus pleaded.

“It's too dangerous and you would only hinder me,” Formosus said. “How did you find me?” The sculptor twisted his fingers and smiled sheepishly.

“I waited outside Senator Titus Cassius' house until you came out, then I followed you. I could barely keep up with you, and I had to hide when you went to the men's meeting point outside the Servilian Wall.”

“You know about that place?” Formosus asked, surprised.

“Everyone knows about it,” Marcus replied.

“Everyone except me,” Formosus mumbled. Then he looked up.

“I will let you come for part of the way, Sculptor, but when I send you back you will go home,” Formosus said seriously.

“I swear you will not regret your decision!” A smile broke out on Marcus' face, it was a lovely smile, Formosus thought. Perhaps it would be good to have some company, even if Marcus had a way of grating on Formosus' nerves. There was another thing that Formosus suddenly realised. For some reason, he trusted the sculptor.

*

"Master!" Formosus howled. It was not so much the pain, although blood was streaming down his hand, as the disappointment and the shock.

"Come here, let me see." the Roman held out his hand and gently took the boy's wrist, examining his bleeding finger. He guided him gently to the water pump and cleansed the blood from his hand. "You'll live," he smiled, "what happened?"

"Alce bit me," Formosus declared tearfully, "I don't understand, he has never hurt me before. He had a bone, and I was playing with him when he suddenly bit me!"

"You should never disturb a dog when it is eating," Quintus Aelius said, "you should know that."

"But I thought he was my friend!" The boy pulled a face. The Roman looked suddenly sad.

"You should never trust anyone wholly," he said slowly, "everyone has their price."

"Not even you, Master?" the youth asked, shocked.

"Did I not steal you from your home and your family?" Quintus shook his head. "You have a trusting nature, Formosus," he added, "be careful who you bestow that trust onto."


	12. Chapter 12

Gaius Balbus huffed as he slid off his horse.  
“We will rest here,” he shouted over his shoulder at the motley band of four thuggish men riding behind him. He was getting too old and too fat for this game of hide and seek. He had been commissioned by the patrician landowner Tarquinius Priscus Magnus to retrieve his runaway slave, a valuable, highly educated Greek who managed the landowner's sizeable private library and also oversaw the administration of his owner's estate. Priscus was completely helpless without his slave Graecus, and had made a handsome upfront payment with a promise of more to come if the slave hunter brought back his property in one piece. But Balbus was beginning to think that his search would be fruitless. The Greek slave had seemingly disappeared from the face of the earth.

“That's what comes of educating the scum so highly,” he grumbled to himself, apparently unaware that it was precisely his education that made the fugitive so valuable. He looked with distaste at his companions. They were a disreputable collection of ruffians, picked more for their brutish and violent natures than for any skill as trackers or hunters. But then it was getting harder and harder to find good men for the job as Fugitivarius. Roman youth was indolent, soft, decadent and lazy, and young men turned their noses up at the perfectly honourable jobs of slave hunter and slave trader. They all wanted to become Praetorian Guards or similar nonsense, and prance around Rome showing off. Balbus sat down heavily.

Tarquinius Priscus had been sure that his fugitive slave would head for Tibur, where Priscus, like many wealthy Romans, had a summer villa that Graecus had been to often. From there, the nobleman asserted, the slave would follow the Via Valeria, which would lead him in the general direction of the coast, where he might be able to get a boat to take him across the Adriatic Sea towards Greece. Priscus maintained that, as he fed Graecus well and treated him as befitted a very valuable possession, the man must be overcome with longing for his home to leave such an amiable master. Therefore he would be headed to the coast and Greece. Bulbus was inclined to doubt this scenario, but who was he to contradict his betters? They might yet find a trace of the runaway at Tibur.

Balbus was also keeping an eye open for a fugitive Celt, suspected to be complicit in the murder of his master, a highly respected Senator; or even party to a conspiracy by Celtic slaves to rebel against their masters. Since Spartacus' uprising, Romans feared revolt by their slaves more than external foes. Even the hint of a rumour could trigger a brutal reprisal. The fact that the Senator and his slave were known to have been lovers and the Senator had even occasionally been ridiculed behind his back because he doted on the slave so much meant nothing in Balbus' experience. Just like Tarquinius Priscus, Roman masters could be extraordinarily dense when it came to their slaves. Balbus was of the opinion that the better a slave was treated, the more disobedient and ungrateful he or she would become. The senator's slave was on the run; as he had been granted manumission in the Senator's will he was legally no longer a slave but he was potentially a murderer; and a freedman was still not a Roman citizen. Finding the Celt would certainly mean a large reward would come his way.

While the men sprawled in the grass under the pine trees, eating and drinking, Balbus decided to remedy the heat from the late afternoon sun that was bothering him. They were nearly in Tibur, and Balbus had to plan how to approach Tarquinius Priscus' estate that was to the north of the town without alerting the Greek slave's suspicion, if he was indeed there at all. They had stopped near the Albulae Aquae, the White Water, a group of springs considered beneficial to health. Balbus decided that it couldn't hurt to take a quick bath in them, or at least dip his feet. They were almost certain to be deserted, Balbus had seen no one on the Via Tiburtina so far.

The slave hunter took the foot path through the pine trees leading to the sulphurous water. The water would be tepid, but not warm, exactly perfect for a relaxing bath. As soon as the springs came into view, the bluish water glinting in the late afternoon sun, Balbus was stopped in his tracks. He blinked, wondering if he had inadvertently come across one of the Gods, sleeping. On the spur of the moment he could think of no other explanation for the sight of a very tall man, with tanned, golden skin and golden-brown hair, lying on his stomach absolutely naked, his smooth back glistening with drops of water.

*

Formosus had been gritting his teeth for at least two hours. Taciturn by nature, his companion's loquaciousness jarred his sensibilities. Even Junius was never this chatty. The Celt had resigned himself to the fact that Marcus would not be turning back. The boy had also succeeded in worming his destination out of Formosus.

As they picked their way along the wooded banks of the Anio river that led straight to Tibur, thus avoiding the road, Formosus was sure he had heard the complete and unabridged story of Marcus' life at least four times, each time embellished with some additional details. It was with an overwhelming sense of relief that he saw the Sabine mountains and with them Tibur looming larger and larger before them. But Marcus was not content with just riding up the wooded hillside straight to the villa. The sculptor argued that, as Formosus had wasted two days in Rome before setting out, word could have reached Tibur of Quintus Aelius' murder and the villa could be under surveillance. Formosus very much doubted this version of events had come to pass, but any attempt at convincing Marcus of this was fruitless. The sculptor insisted that Formosus stay behind, concealed in the woods near the White Water springs, while he made the journey up the hillside, armed with Formosus' description of the location of the villa, to see if the coast was clear. When he came back down, providing all was safe, it would be dark by the time they got to the villa which was all for the best.

Formosus had his doubts. His instructions were to go straight to the villa. He had been told to go alone and share his plans with no one. Master must have known what he was doing when he gave Formosus those orders, and the Celt was inclined to just do as he was told. But Marcus was adamant, and Formosus decided that it was not worth arguing about. He would hide for an hour and a half until the sculptor returned, and then they would go on to the villa at last. What did it matter, and who knew, perhaps the boy was right. After all, he had delayed his departure from Rome and it was conceivable that word of the Senator's death had somehow reached Tibur.

Hidden in the undergrowth on the riverbank, watching his horse drink from the water, Formosus felt hot and impatient. He recalled being at that precise spot before, with his Master. He got up and took the horse's reins. The White Water springs were beautiful, what could it hurt to wait there? When he got there, the water was blue and inviting, he remembered bathing there with the Senator. He walked over, trailing a foot through the water. They had seen no one on their journey, what difference would it make if he took a short bath? His thick hair was sticking to his forehead and he felt sweaty and dirty. Securing the horse to a branch with enough length to let the animal graze, he quickly disrobed and plunged into the water. The relief was instantaneous. He ducked his head into the sulphurous water and came up again, snorting and shaking his shaggy hair like a dog, spraying droplets of water around him. For the first time since his master had died he felt the urge to laugh with joy.

Formosus stayed in the water longer than he had meant to. He would have to dry off before he could get dressed again and resume his position on the riverbank, where Marcus would come to collect him. Sighing, he lay down on the grass by the springs in the sun to dry off his wet back. A memory came back to him, clear, sharp and vivid; too tempting to push to the back of his mind and ignore.

*

“We will rest here,” Quintus Aelius said, holding up his hand and stopping his horse. “Wait on the edge of the woods,” he ordered the guards.

“But we are near the villa, Master,” Formosus argued.

“I realise that,” the Senator sighed, dismounting and slapping the slave's thigh. “Get off your horse. I want to show you something.” Formosus frowned, then followed his Master through the trees. The farther they went, the stronger the strange smell became.

“Master, where are we going?” Formosus complained, “there is such a strange smell.” But the Senator just held up his hand.

They reached a clearing, and when Formosus drew level with his Master, he saw the origin of the smell. Bubbling in a pool of clearest blue water were several springs. The place was beautiful, Formosus could imagine Narcissus sitting on the water's edge, staring at his own reflection and falling in love with himself. Master had told him of the Greek legend about the beautiful hunter who saw his own image in the water and died of love for it. It had been, Formosus suspected, a cautionary tale or one of Master's little jokes at his expense, because Formosus very much enjoyed looking at himself in the mirror. But it was small wonder that Formosus was vain as he was constantly being told that he was beautiful.

“Come, bathe with me,” the Senator smiled, disrobing. Formosus felt a wave of lust roll over him at the sight of his Master's naked body, lithe, tightly muscled and tanned, dark hair on his chest and surrounding his genitals. “Stop staring,” the Roman smiled, “and join me.” Formosus watched him turn towards the water, his eyes fixed on the man's firm buttocks. The Celt tossed off his clothes and followed his Master, gingerly dipping a toe into the water, then splashing in completely. The water was perfect, not cold, but cool enough to refresh. His Master had his back to him and Formosus couldn't resist pressing up behind him and kissing the back of his neck. He felt the Senator relax and lean against him. The combination of the pressure of the other man's body and the feeling of his wet skin under Formosus' fingers produced an instant erection. The Celt moaned, and pressed against his master with more urgency. The Roman was slightly shorter than he was, and the base of his penis was pushed hard against the Senator's buttocks. Formosus snaked his arms around the Senator and his hand brushed the other man's erection that was standing stiffly upright. Formosus fingered its head, eliciting a groan from his Master. He had never actively initiated sex with his Master, and the feeling was exhilarating. He wrapped one hand around the Roman's shaft and pulled the man back against him gently with the other arm around his waist. He felt his own penis slip between the Senator's muscular buttocks and moaned again, kissing the back of the other man's neck. He could hardly believe that his Master was letting him take the lead. There was no mistaking the fact that the Roman was pressing back against him.

“Master,” Formosus moaned, but it was more a plea than a moan. Releasing his Master's erection Formosus pushed one of his fingers into his mouth and covered it in saliva. The Roman didn't speak, but he didn't protest either. Pulling back slightly and holding his breath, waiting for a rebuke, he trailed his wet finger down the Senator's back and then between his buttocks, rubbing it over his Master's entrance. He knew it was not permissible for a lowly slave to penetrate his Master, and certainly not a nobleman. Formosus pushed, and suddenly his finger was inside the tight little hole and his Master was groaning again and pushing back, causing the finger to slip inside further.

Despite the cooling water, Formosus felt hot all over. Surely his Master was not going to allow this. He moved his finger back and forth as he had felt his Master do many times, and added a second finger. He knew that if he bent his fingers at the correct angle, he would find the spot inside that could cause so much pleasure. When he felt the other man jolt in his arms, he knew he had touched it. Burying his lips in the Roman's dark curly hair, he could feel his Master's entrance loosen, and added a third finger as his Master did when he prepared him. Formosus could hardly wait. He wanted to enter his Master so badly it made his chest tight and his erection almost painfully hard. Pulling his fingers out quickly, he immediately substituted the head of his penis, positioning it with one hand, and holding his Master with the other arm still around his waist. The head was pushing against the ring of muscle at his Master's anus, one more push and he would be inside, but he felt his Master's hand on his arm, as hard as steel, releasing his grip around his Master's waist.

“No Formosus,” Quintus Aelius said breathlessly, “stop.”

“But Master!” Formosus protested, loath to pull back.

“Let me go,” the Senator ordered, “we cannot do this.”

“But you liked it...” Formosus began.

“That is hardly the point,” Quintus Aelius interrupted roughly, “it is not permissible. You are a slave, I am a nobleman. Now let me go and turn around. You know very well that it is completely unacceptable that I let you dominate me.”

“But Master,” Formosus begged, “I have no wish to dominate you, only to pleasure you. And I know you were enjoying it.” Quintus Aelius whipped around and grabbed the slave's chin.

“What we find pleasurable is not always permitted,” he told Formosus sternly, “we live by rules that are in place to prevent us from living like animals. We will abide by them.”

“What if these rules are senseless?” Formosus grumbled.

“Then you must join the Senate, argue about them for several years, and then, if the Emperor does not intervene, you might get them changed. Probably not during your lifetime, though,” Quintus Aelius returned.

“I don't understand, Master,” Formosus returned sulkily, suspecting that his Master was making fun of him.”

“This is a law of Nature,” the Senator said angrily, “the strong must dominate the weak. Now turn around.” But although his Master's voice was angry, his touch was soft and gentle, and they climaxed together, locked in a loving embrace. But Formosus could never forget what nearly was, and the thought of it never failed to arouse him.

*

Moaning at the thought of that afternoon in the water, and pushing a hand underneath his belly to relieve his aching member, Formosus, lying on his stomach in a patch of sunlight near the White Water, didn't hear the swishing of long grass and the quiet cracking of twigs underfoot as the five men approached him stealthily. Lulled into a false sense of security by his own memories and intent on releasing his pent-up sexual urges, he was as dead to the world as if he had fallen fast asleep. Jolting back to reality this time was worse than when he had been shaken awake by Marcus that morning. His arms were grabbed roughly and secured tightly and painfully behind his back before he could even comprehend what was happening. He was dragged to his feet by strong hands and held firmly in place. He was surrounded by five men, rough-looking individuals, four younger, men and an older man with a bald head and cold eyes.

“They didn't say the Greek was such a good-looking bastard,” one of the men laughed, “and just look at that!” the man pointed to Formosus engorged member. “What a stallion!” The older man clucked in annoyance.

“Fatue!” he growled, “this isn't the Greek. This is Senator Quintus Aelius' Celtic slave, the one who ran away after the murder. He's worth far more than Tarquinius Priscus' stupid librarian. So keep your dirty thoughts to yourself, and your dirty hands off him!”


	13. Chapter 13

Formosus was angry. Angry at the five thugs who had captured him. Angry at one of them in particular who kept staring at him even though he was now clothed. Angry at Marcus for not letting him head straight for the villa. But most of all, angry at himself for being so foolish and careless. As gentle and compliant as he could be, Formosus had a temper, something he kept carefully under control. But he was dangerously close to exploding.  
There was no sign of Marcus anywhere. Formosus supposed the boy must have seen what had happened and taken off. Formosus could hardly blame him. The slave hunters had taken his horse, his money and his belongings. The older man, who was obviously their leader, had tied his bound hands to a long rope, forcing him to follow the mounted men on foot at a pace they set.

It was puzzling though, that, instead of heading straight back towards Rome, they were actually moving uphill towards Tibur. Whether the men planned to spend the night there before embarking on the journey back to Rome, or whether their route had something to do with a man named Graecus he heard snippets of conversation about, Formosus had no idea. But a reprieve could only be of advantage to him, Formosus decided. Formosus was determined to attempt an escape.

When he passed the falls of the Anio River, tears pricked Formosus' eyes. The villa was not far from there, at the end of a steep path leading upwards behind the temple. For a moment, Formosus wondered if the Fugitivarii knew about the villa and were going there to check. He was relieved when they veered sharply to the left after crossing the bridge, into an area where Formosus knew there were several very large villas grouped around a small lake.

The men slowed their pace and then, at a sign from the older man who was obviously the leader, they quietly dismounted and continued on foot cautiously. When they came to the edge of the woods, they secured the horses.

“What about him?” the man who had been staring at him said, pointing at Formosus. “I could stay here with him while you go and look.”

“I'm sure you could,” the older man sneered. “He's coming along, and so are you.” He untied the rope binding Formosus to his horse and wrapped it around his hand. Immediately Formosus tried to pull loose, but the slave hunter had a firmer grip on the rope than Formosus had anticipated, and, without the use of his arms, Formosus stumbled and nearly fell. The man hit him savagely around the head. “Behave, or I'll let him have you!” He nodded at the leering slave hunter who had offered to stay with him. One of the men pulled an old rag out of a saddlebag and stuffed it into Formosus' mouth.

“Just making sure you keep quiet, Celt,” he spat. “Which one is it, Balbus ?”

“The closest one,” the older man snapped, “now stop quibbling and follow me. The Greek is most likely not even there, but we might as well be sure as we are here in the area, and we can stay the night in luxury and return to Rome tomorrow.”

“Is no one at Tarquinius Priscus' villa?” one of the other men demanded.

“It's locked up until the Summer,” Gaius Balbus replied bad temperedly, “but I have the key.”

“Do you have the key to the wine cellar?” The men laughed. Balbus dragged on the rope around Formosus' hands, and they began a furtive and careful approach towards the villa.

The house and garden were larger than Quintus Aelius villa and grounds; approaching from the back they sneaked through the bushes surrounding a large pool lined with statues. Coming closer, they could see that one of the doors to the villa was ajar.

“There is someone here,” Balbus mumbled, “perhaps Tarquinius Priscus was right after all.” Out of sight, a horse neighed.

“Looks like a pantry,” one of the men said, “some one is stocking up on provisions.” At that moment a man came out of the door, a skin full of water and something wrapped in a cloth in his hands. He was a young man, slight and of medium height, with dark, curly hair that was a little too long, and large, wary eyes.

“That's him,” Balbus whispered, turning to the men, “get him.”

The moment Formosus saw the other man he knew he was a slave. There was something in his eyes, and something in his stance. He looked cowed, as if anticipating a blow. Determined to save the other man from the slave hunters, Formosus tried to call out. All he could do was groan low in his throat, the cloth in his mouth prevented any louder noise from escaping him. It was enough to alert the dark-haired slave, but not enough to warn him. At the same time as Balbus administered a resounding blow to the side of Formosus' face, nearly knocking him down and making his ears ring, the four men pounced on the wiry slave and had him tied in no time at all. Balbus pulled the piece of cloth out of Formosus' mouth.

“So it's like that, is it?” he sneered, “you'll learn, my pretty, spoilt pet, you'll learn.” He slapped Formosus again and pushed him to where the other slave was struggling futilely with the four men binding him.

Pushing and shoving the two captives, the men returned to the horses, and while Balbus took charge of Formosus, one of the other men, a swarthy, taciturn individual with a permanent scowl called Appius, dragged the other man after him. They led the horses and the two captives back to the villa where they bundled them inside, and, after searching for a suitable place, found a small room with barred windows usually used for storage, in which they pushed the captives, locking the door behind them. Formosus sat down heavily, impeded by his tightly bound hands. The rope was eating into his skin and it was beginning to hurt. The other man was still standing, and was looking down at him.

“Thank you,” he said in a gentle voice. Formosus looked up, surprised.

“What for?” he asked.

“For trying to warn me,” the other man answered.

“It did no good,” Formosus said darkly, looking away.

“But you tried.” The man settled down on the floor next to him. “What's your name?” Formosus looked up, irritated. He would much rather have wallowed in his discomfort and sorrow than talked to this perfect stranger.

“Formosus,” he grunted.

“I might have guessed,” the slave smiled. Formosus rolled his eyes.

“Are you this Graecus the fugitivarii have been talking about?” he inquired.

“Graecus, the Greek,” the dark-haired slave spat, “that's what my Master calls me at least. I don't warrant a proper name. But I do have one.” Formosus looked over at the other man and blinked uncomprehendingly.

“I don't understand,” he mumbled.

“Beautiful, but stupid, is that it? Just my luck. I have always preferred brains to beauty.” The Greek sighed.

“Who are you calling stupid?” Formosus snarled. “I'm not stupid. I just do not understand your meaning.”

“Graecus, the Greek, Formosus, the beautiful one, those are slave names, the ones our owners chose for us. My name isn't Graecus, I am a Greek, but my name is Iason, it is the name my parents gave to me. And what is yours?”

“I told you,” Formosus returned angrily, “my name is Formosus. My Master named me. I need no other name.”

“You're a fool, Formosus, beautiful, but a fool,” Iason smiled.

“I am no fool,” Formosus retorted, seriously angry now, “Master taught me Greek, and accounting, mathematics and a little astrology.”

“But he didn't teach you to think for yourself, did he?” Iason said smugly. Formosus stared at the other man.

“Master looked after me,” he said sullenly. The Greek's face softened, he looked almost pityingly at Formosus.

“Why did you run away, then?” he asked gently.

“I didn't run away,” Formosus replied indignantly. “He, my Master, was killed. Murdered. He left instructions for me. He told me to leave Rome and go to his villa at Tibur. He freed me in his will. But they think I murdered him and that is why they caught me.” He looked at the Greek and could not keep the pain out of his eyes. “I would never have hurt him. I loved him. I have lived with him since I was barely more than a child. He was my master, my father, my lover, my teacher. The name he gave me is the only one I know.” The Greek looked at him for a moment, then smiled.

“All right, if that is what you feel. Perhaps you were happy being a slave if you loved your master so dearly.” The Greek twisted his hands, testing the bonds. “I on the other hand, ran away. I just stopped at my so-called Master's villa for some provisions when those ruffians accosted me, as you saw. Half an hour later and I would have got clean away.” Formosus thought about Iason's words. There was some truth in them. He had loved his Master, but he hadn't been happy as a slave. He had always wished to be on equal terms with his Master in every respect, and his status had always made him feel vulnerable. He remembered fretting because he was afraid that his Master might sell him, and he remembered hating his Master for what happened to him at Nero's palace.

“Perhaps I wasn't so happy being a slave,” he admitted, “although I did love my Master.”

“Perhaps you're not as stupid as I thought,” Iason grinned.

The door opened and the man who had stared at Formosus entered, carrying food and water. He crouched down next to Formosus. A second man came to stand in the doorway.

“Food,” he said, looking Formosus up and down, “you need to keep your strength up.” Then he laughed. “You might also need to keep this up.” He reached between Formosus' legs and grabbed his genitals. Formosus kicked out savagely, but missed. “I like them with a bit of spirit,” he said, withdrawing his hand slowly, “but I'll tame you, stallion, one way or another.”

“Leave him,” the other man said, “you're not supposed to touch him. Balbus has got something very special planned with that one, so keep your hands off.”

The man crouching next to Formosus smirked. “I wonder what he will be worth?” Then he started to untie Formosus' hands. “No funny business, or I'll tie them up again. You'll need them to eat with. There's no way you can escape, anyway.” He leaned over and untied Iason's hands, too. “I'll be back,” he whispered into Formosus' ear.

Iason pushed a piece of bread at Formosus.

“That was worrying,” he stated dryly. Formosus shrugged.

“He won't dare,” Formosus said with a confidence he was far from feeling.

“Hmm,” Iason hummed, “but I didn't mean that, unsettling though that was, too. I meant what the other one said.”

“What are you talking about?” Formosus mumbled, his mouth full of bread.

“He said that Balbus, who presumably is their leader, has something special planned for you,” Iason explained.

“Handing me over to the authorities for the murder of my Master, I dare say,” Formosus answered uninterestedly.

“I get the feeling that was not what he meant.” Iason sighed and drank a sip of water. “Do you know what you would be worth at a slave market, a private slave auction?” Formosus looked up.

“I don't understand,” he responded.

“You don't understand much,” Iason said gently and a little sadly. “I'm sure the reward for bringing you back to Rome is quite handsome, but it is nothing compared to what they would get for you if they sold you to the highest bidder.” Formosus' eyes widened.

“But Master set me free,” he complained, “and anyway, there are people in Rome who know me. Master's friends, the senators, many of the rich noblemen. They could never sell me!”

“Rome is not the only town with slave dealers and a slave market,” Iason said darkly, “I think you will find that we will not be going back in the direction of Rome tomorrow.” The food turned to ashes in Formosus' mouth. Even a long, lingering death was preferable to a life of slavery with someone who was not Senator Quintus Aelius Aurelius.

*

“The nobleman Tarquinius Priscus, my so-called Master, is a pompous, fatuous, air-headed wastrel, who would have squandered his wealth years ago if I didn't keep it under close control,” Iason began when they had settled down for the night. “Even the Senate won't have him, and before you puff yourself up because your exalted Master was a Senator, you should know that for the noblest families, membership in the Senate is practically a birthright. But even the Senators with their constant bickering and empty arguments would be hard pressed to tolerate the boredom and stupidity of Tarquinius Priscus' utterings.”

Formosus listened open-mouthed. Even Junius, who could be quite dismissive of his master. would never say anything as disloyal and utterly scandalous as Iason. He knew that there were evil masters, cruel masters and masters who cared nothing for their slaves' welfare, but he had never heard a slave speak as disparagingly of his master as Iason. In a way, it was thrilling to hear.

“He relies on me for everything,” Iason continued, “and he knows it. Still he treats me with contempt because he was born a nobleman, and I a slave, or so he supposes. Of course I was born nothing of the kind; I was stolen from my parents as a child. We Greeks,” he smirked, “have a reputation for being the best educated and most intelligent of the peoples of the world. But be that as it may, I am not going back to my so-called Master. I am not going to be led to the slaughter by these half-wits, and neither should you.”

“But what can we do?” Formosus hissed.

“I don't know,” Iason rejoined, “but I'll think of something. I'm Greek.”


	14. Chapter 14

The Romans poured into the village, hacking down everyone who stood in their way. They knew Boudicca had fallen, now the rest of them were to be slaughtered, annihilated by the occupying forces. What did it matter now that he had been carefully concealed, cautioned not to show himself and to survive at all costs when they would all be dead by the evening? Brigo was out there somewhere, he had to see him before they all died. Cautiously, he pushed open the trap door to the cellar he was hiding in, and immediately noise assaulted his ears, although the hut was empty.

He managed to leave the hut without being seen and hide in the bushes. His people were dying, they were no match for the Romans with their superior weapons and numbers. He could not see Brigo anywhere. Moving forwards, concealed by the bushes and just on the edge of the fighting, he skimmed the area with his eyes, looking for a sight of bright blond hair, glinting in the sun. But Brigo was nowhere to be seen. Concentrating on the battle scene before him, he wasn't paying attention to where he was walking until his foot struck something soft and he nearly fell. Looking down, he saw it was the body of a young man, almost a boy still. The youth groaned, and lifted his head.  
“Brigo!” he cried, falling to his knees. The boy's clothes were covered in blood, his face was pale and touched with death. He knew that look. He had seen it many times before.

“Cousin,” Brigo managed to answer, “cousin, you are still alive.”

“Brigo, you're hurt!” Tears came hard and fast. He couldn't bear to lose Brigo. He had lost everyone else. Brigo gripped his arm with astonishing strength.

“Cousin, listen to me. You must run. You know that the most important thing is that you survive. You are the only one left. Go into the woods and hide until they leave. Try to reach the territory belonging to the Trinovantes, they will help you. But let no one know who you are. Forget your name and your origins. You are a simple village lad, fleeing from the Romans, do you understand? You must go now.” Brigo coughed, and a trickle of blood trailed out of the side of his mouth.

“Don't make me leave you, Brigo!” he wailed.

“I'm dying, cousin,” Brigo said, “you must save yourself. You owe it to all of us.” Brigo's eyelids fluttered. “I love you, cousin, perhaps I should have spoken before. But perhaps you always knew.”

“No, Brigo, don't leave me,” he cried, but Brigo's eyes were already turning upwards. He leaned down and kissed the lips he had always longed to press his own against. They pulled into a faint smile.

“I love you cousin,” Brigo's faint voice repeated, becoming weaker, “but you must forget me. Forget who you are and everything about yourself. Save yourself. That I might die in peace with the hope that you will live and flourish.”

Tears blinded him. He rose to his feet, determined to run for the woods as Brigo had told him to. But he was grabbed by the arm and dragged into the saddle of a Roman horse before he could even pull his dagger.  
“You're too pretty to waste, a voice said in his ear while a hand roughly disposed of the dagger at his belt. We'll have some fun with you this evening.”

“Brigo!” he shouted. “Help me!” But Brigo's soul had already left the world, and all he could hope for was that they would meet again at some unknown time in the future.

*

Formosus felt his shoulder being shaken.

“What is the matter with you?” Iason said, alarmed.

“Master?” Formosus replied, his brain still addled with sleep.

“I should hope not,” Iason retorted, “you had a bad dream and cried out.” Formosus blinked.

“I did?” he stalled, sitting up.

“Who is Brigo?” Iason asked. Formosus was silent, rubbing his eyes. “You called out that name. Brigo, help me, you cried.”

“It was just a dream,” Formosus growled stubbornly.

“You're a Celt,” Iason said smugly, “Brigo is a Celtic word, a Celtic name.”

“So?” Formosus grumbled, lying back down and turning away from Iason.

“Which tribe?” Iason insisted.

“Leave me alone,” Formosus snarled without looking at him.

“I thought you were from one of the Latin-speaking provinces, Gallia Cisalpina or some such. You speak Latin so perfectly.” Iason tugged at Formosus' shoulder.

“Master taught me,” Formosus responded sulkily.

“Yes, I might have known,” Iason answered softly, “I might have known you would say that.”

The next morning came too soon, but contrary to Iason's expectations, the slave hunters, who were quiet and visibly the worse for wear, headed down the hills and back to the Via Tiburtina towards Rome. They were taking quite a risk, but Iason soon understood the reasoning behind the slave hunter's actions. The tall Celt flashed him a questioning look, but as they were being led separately, the Greek could not speak to him.  
Iason felt infinitely sorry for the other man. There was something trusting and sweet about him, despite the fact that he was taciturn, serious and a little on the sullen side. He did not have the air of a slave about him and that made Iason feel inclined to believe that his account of his relationship with Senator Quintus Aelius Aurelius was accurate. He didn't know the Senator, but he had heard of him and seen him from a distance. He was an extraordinarily handsome man, if a little forbidding, and by all accounts an honourable, brave and virtuous citizen, who was a veteran of the campaign in Britannia. Iason wondered whether Formosus, whatever his real name was, and the Senator had met there, but the Celt wasn't telling.  
Iason was curious by nature, he saw it as a natural consequence of his intelligence. The more he could find out, the more he knew about the world around him. He had never spoken to a Celt from Britannia before, and as Formosus was articulate enough when he bothered to speak, he was determined to worm his secret out of him. He also wanted to help the man. Formosus had suffered greatly, that was self-evident. Iason was already planning ahead.  
It was hot, and the slave hunters had evidently taken too much wine the night before. Unfortunately that hadn't influenced their vigilance, and both the captives were tightly bound and watched. They stopped to drink in the shade by the Anio river, and Iason had the opportunity to speak to Formosus as they were roughly tied to a tree trunk while the hunters sated their thirst. Formosus scowled, something he did often.  
“I thought you said we would not be going back to Rome,” he addressed the Greek.

“We're not,” Iason answered, “I did not think they would take the risk of going to a town so close to Rome, but they are obviously headed towards Ostia.”

“Ostia?” Formosus mulled this over. “I have been to Ostia with Master. One of Master's friends has a villa there, by the sea.”

“The port of Ostia is one of the largest centres for slave trading in the entire Empire,” Iason hissed, looking around to make sure that none of their captors was listening, “slaves are brought there from Egypt, Greece and Africa, and slaves are bred and sold there, destined for servitude in other countries. It would be easy to conceal your origins. But it is close to Rome, these men are audacious. On the other hand, they can sell you in Ostia tomorrow and be back in Rome by the evening, returning me to my owner and all the richer for it, and nobody will be any the wiser.”

“I thought you had a plan,” Formosus said accusingly.

“I'm working on it,” Iason answered, “I thought we would have more time because we would be travelling farther afield. But if we carry on without stopping we should be in Ostia tonight.” Formosus looked away and kicked idly at a stone.

“It doesn't much matter either way,” he mumbled, “my life is over. Everyone I have ever cared for is dead. I still have the other option. Voluntariam mortem mihi conscisco.”

“Suicide?” The Greek shook his head. “All is not over yet. I am sure your Master did not intend you to end your own life. Nor Brigo, who visited you in your dreams.” Formosus flashed Iason and angry look.

“Do not speak his name!” he hissed, and from then on refused to be engaged in further conversation.

*

Marcus had been trailing the slave hunters all day. When they turned off the Via Tiburtina before it reached Rome and travelled in a south-westerly direction across country, it dawned on him that they were not headed for Rome, but for Ostia. Marcus had no idea what that meant. All he knew was that he had to free Formosus from the clutches of the terrible Fugitivarii. It was heart-breaking, retracing his steps back towards Rome and away from Tibur, and he blamed himself. If he had not left Formosus alone by the river bank, he would never had fallen into the clutches of the slave hunters.

Marcus had arrived back from reconnoitring the area around Quintus Aelius' villa, only to find the spot where he had left Formosus was empty. He cursed the head-strong Celt roundly, imagining that the man had set off towards the villa of his own accord. He never seemed to take anything that Marcus said remotely seriously, and treated him at best with the indulgence adults reserve for their dealings with children.  
In truth, Marcus did not know what had motivated him to follow the Celt out of Rome. Formosus was harsh, sullen, uncommunicative and insulting. He was also arrogant and did not even try to hide his contempt of Marcus' abilities or lack thereof. He made no secret of the fact that the only man he loved and would ever love was the late Senator Quintus Aelius. The prospect of Marcus ever feeling those soft lips on his again, or that smooth skin under his fingers was more or less non-existent, unless Formosus was drugged, drunk or had gone completely mad, and even then Marcus had his doubts as to whether the Celt would ever let his guard down that much. So it was with a certain amount of apprehension that Marcus discovered that the slave hunters had another captive alongside Formosus, a dark-haired, skinny young man of about their own age with large, intelligent eyes and an attractive smile that he often directed at Formosus. The Celt seemed to be his usual unresponsive self, but as far as Marcus could judge from a distance, and he was careful not to get too close to the slave hunters as he did not trust his own abilities to conceal himself, Formosus looked towards the other slave often, and his face when he glanced at the other man was soft and questioning. Marcus was jealous. He had to get Formosus away as soon as possible, and not just to save him from the slave hunters.  
When he realised that Formosus had disappeared, Marcus had not known what to do. He had returned to the villa, but Formosus was not there. It was dark by that time, so Marcus camped in the grounds, intending to search the area for clues of Formosus' whereabouts more thoroughly when the sun rose. The next day when he was returning to the spot where he left the Celt, he almost rode straight into the slave hunters, and retreated into the undergrowth just in time. It was then that he realised what had befallen Formosus, and he vowed to undo the harm he had caused.

*

“We're being followed,” Iason hissed into Formosus' ear when they were jostled together, stumbling along the road to Ostia, dead-tired. Formosus grunted. He was not listening properly and had completely forgotten his erstwhile travelling companion, the young sculptor. “ We have been since we rested by the banks of the Anio. I wonder who it is.”

“Shut up!” Balbus flicked his whip at Iason. “We're nearly there, then we can rest. I need the Celt in perfect condition for tomorrow.” Iason stumbled against Formosus. “When that pile of excrement over there,” he nodded to the man who had spoken to Formosus the night before and never seemed to take his eyes off him, “comes to visit you tonight, and he will, don't fight him.”

“What?” Formosus retorted.

“Trust me,” Iason hissed before he was struck across the cheek with Balbus' whip. Formosus tried to lunge at the slave hunter, but was restricted by his bonds. Balbus laughed.

“Good, you've got some fight in you. That's a good selling point. Not that you need one.” The slave hunter smiled. “Men, we will all be rich tomorrow, thanks to our little find.” The other slave hunters echoed his laughter.

They stopped in Ostia at the house of a man who Balbus obviously knew, and who whistled through his teeth when he saw Formosus. Formosus quickly gathered that the man was a slave trader. He and Balbus dragged Formosus into a room and closed the door. The room was bare save for a set of chains attached to a wooden frame in the middle of the room, and a table with instruments that Formosus did not want to look at. Standing next to the table was a huge, impassive-looking man, obviously the slave-trader's servant. Formosus struggled, but he had no chance against the three men holding him. He was chained to the frame, and the slave trader cut away his clothes with a knife.

“You won't be needing these,” he grinned. Formosus couldn't resist spitting into the man's face. The slave trader wiped his face cheerfully and stayed Balbus' hand, who had lifted his arm to strike Formosus.

“It happens all the time,” he said. “Don't worry, he'll get his reward when I sell him tomorrow. We'll find a master for you who will keep you in line.”

The slave trader carefully examined Formosus eyes, then he lifted his lips to look at his teeth. Formosus could not move his head as the servant, standing behind him, had a tight grip on him.  
“In perfect health,” the slave-trader mumbled, inspecting the Celt's teeth, “one of his teeth is not straight, but that will hardly be a problem. He would be about twenty-three I guess, so we'll sell him as twenty-one, it doesn't hurt to reduce the age a little. Nice thick hair. We'll leave it like that although it could do with a trim, it gives him an untamed look. Where is he from?”

“He's a Celt,” Balbus answered.

“Oh,” the slave trader hummed, “not much call for Celts at the moment, what with all those rumours of an uprising going around. From Britannia I dare say?” Balbus nodded.

“Well, we can pass him off as a Gaul I suppose. My buyers are mostly from the Provinces anyway, you did specify no customers from Rome?” The trader looked at Balbus who opened his mouth to speak. “No, I don't want to know,” the trader said. “None of my customers will be interested in his past.” The trader ran his hand across Formosus' chest. He's a very fine specimen.” The trader sniffed and looked up. You want me to sell him as soon as possible to someone who will take him out if the vicinity of Rome, is that it?” Balbus nodded.

“He's not exactly stolen goods,” Balbus said, but this is not exactly a legitimate transaction either.” The slave trader laughed.

“A good thing I specialise in that kind of business. There will be a private auction tomorrow afternoon, only invited guests who all come from the Provinces, some even from overseas.” The trader inspected Fomosus' genitals. “Everything perfectly intact, I dare say?” he asked.

“I've seen that they are,” Balbus grinned, “when I came across him he was in the act of pleasuring himself.” The trader laughed and looked at Formosus, who coloured angrily.

“Well, that should please his new master. I dare say he will be bought for bedroom use. Speaking of which: how has he been used?” The slave trader walked around behind Formosus.

“One previous master who I believe treated him very well,” Balbus answered. The slave trader parted Formosus buttocks, causing him to jerk in panic. “He's not used to rough treatment.”

“He might have to acquaint himself with it.” The trader wiped his finger on a rag saturated in oil, then began to work the oily digit inside Formosus. “Stop clenching, slave,” he ordered, tugging on Formosus' hair, “or this will hurt you.” The slave trader worked in a second finger deftly.

“Does he speak Latin?” he asked Balbus.

“He speaks perfectly,” Balbus responded.

“It hardly matters,” the slave trader twisted his fingers inside Formosus roughly, “he won't be bought for his conversational skills, but it helps if they can at least understand basic commands.” Formosus couldn't help moaning in discomfort.

“Shh,” the trader hissed, slapping his flank, then he addressed Balbus, still stroking inside Formosus vigorously. “He seems to be functioning perfectly, as a virile young man should. He's very big.” Formosus looked down at himself, helplessly watching his member rise as his prostate was stroked to the point of pain. “I prefer girls myself,” the slave trader continued conversationally, “but I wouldn't mind fucking this one. As the auction is tomorrow though, I will have to leave him intact.” the trader reached around and roughly pulled on Formosus' member. Formosus could not repress a groan as he felt semen spurt out of his penis into a puddle on the floor in front of him. The trader pulled out his fingers and smiled at Balbus.

“Jupiter the great and good!” Balbus exclaimed.

“10 000 denarii,” the trader nodded, “at least.”


	15. Chapter 15

Formosus was bundled into a cell where Iason was already sitting, looking up at him, one arm shackled to the wall by a length of chain. The Celt was roughly chained next to him.

“You won't need clothes,” the slave trader grinned, “but I don't want you feeling cold. Here.” He threw a cape with a clasp at Formosus and a blanket. “I'll have some food brought. Then you must get some sleep.” As soon as he had left, Iason leaned forward.

“Are you all right?” he asked worriedly.

“I wish I were dead,” Formosus answered dully.

“Please, don't give up hope,” the Greek implored, “listen, I am sure that the slave hunter who keeps staring at you will not let his last opportunity to accost you pass. When he comes, try to get him to let his guard down, please? Pretend you are willing. Try to manoeuvre him so that he is close to me. Can you try that?” Fomosus sighed.

“I don't know if I will be able to stand it,” he said thickly.

“Please try,” Iason urged, “it could be a chance.” The door was reopened, and the trader's servant brought a plate with fruit, bread and meat with some wine and some water. He put it in front of Formosus wordlessly. Iason followed the man with his eyes until he had left the cell. “You should eat,” he told Formosus. The Celt shook his head and pushed the food towards him.

“You have it,” he said dully, “I'm not hungry.” Formosus pulled the toga on one-handedly and then stared at the cell wall in front of him. Iason could not get him to talk or even react in any way. He reached out to touch the other man's hand, but the Celt just pulled it away. It must have been nearly midnight, Iason guessed, when the door was quietly unlocked.

“Please!” Iason hissed. Just as he had suspected, it was the slave hunter who had made several advances towards Formosus already. Iason could only hope that Formosus' nerves would hold out. He could see that the Celt was very close to his limit.

The slave hunter knelt next to Formosus on he floor, leaning over him and grinning. Formosus seemed frozen where he sat, he didn't move a muscle. He looked almost like a statue, sitting motionless, his eyes dull and lifeless.

“I told you I would visit you,” the man leered.

“You did,” Formosus responded, and his voice was steady and a little seductive, “perhaps you have something particular in mind.” The slave hunter looked slightly surprised at Formosus' calm reaction.

“Listen, if you don't make a fuss, I won't hurt you.” The slave hunter slid closer. “I can make it good for you, too.” An evil glint came into Formosus' eyes, then he smiled and licked his lips.

“Perhaps you can,” he purred. Iason was surprised at Formosus' metamorphosis. He could see that the other man was straining to keep his composure, but his acting was certainly good enough to fool the slave hunter with his hormone-flooded brain. He watched the slave hunter run his hand under the cloak and down Formosus' chest.

“I can't fuck you,” the slave hunter said regretfully, “Balbus would kill me if I messed you up before tomorrow's auction.”

“I have other talents.” Formosus licked his lips. “Why don't you sit here, lean against the wall,” Formosus pointed to the space next to Iason, “and let me show you?” The slave hunter looked over at Iason.

“What about him?” he frowned, pointing at Iason.

“He'll take a little nap. I'd go outside with you, but unfortunately...” here Formosus jangled the chain attached to his wrist.

“I'd unlock you,” the slave-hunter grinned, jangling the keys on his belt, “but unfortunately I don't trust you.” He slid back to rest against the wall. “You, turn away,” he snarled at Iason who shrugged and turned his back on the two men.

Iason couldn't see what was happening, but he could hear it. He didn't dare to turn around as he was afraid of disturbing the slave hunter. He was positioned perfectly for what Iason had in mind, he had the keys on him and all he could hope for was that Formosus would give him a sign when it was safe to turn around. He could hear slurping, sucking noises and even without them, he would have had a fairly good idea what talent Formosus was referring to. Iason hated using Formosus this way, but it was the only chance he could see. The slave hunter was groaning fairly loudly when Iason felt a tap on his shoulder and heard the mumbled word: “τώρα!” Formosus could speak Greek, he had told Iason before, and he used the Greek word for “now” as the uneducated slave-hunter was unlikely to understand the language. Taking a deep breath and wrapping the chain once around his wrist, then taking hold of the other part of it with his free hand, he turned, saw the Roman with his head flung back and his eyes closed in ecstasy, and wrapped the chain from behind around the slave-hunter's throat, pulling it tight so that all that escaped the completely overwhelmed hunter was a croak.  
“Get the keys from his belt,” Iason told Formosus who seemed just as flabbergasted as the Roman, “do it quickly. I don't know how much longer I can restrain him.” The Roman was thrashing around, desperately gasping for air. Formosus grabbed the keys and tried to locate the lock on the shackle around Iason's wrist, but the chain was wrapped tightly around it. Willing himself to keep calm, Iason said: “unlock your own handcuff first.” Formosus nodded, and tried one of the two smaller keys on the lock around his wrist. It sprang open. “Now unlock the door, and go. I don't know how much longer I can restrain the beast.” Formosus frowned.  
“No,” he growled stubbornly.

“Go!” Iason insisted. “My Master will take me back, don't worry about me. I'll just run away again, and again, until I make it. Now run, Formosus! You can't get at the lock on my wrist and you mustn't waste time! This is your only chance.” Formosus looked at Iason, then at the slave hunter. Very deliberately he wrapped his long fingers around the slave-hunter's neck and squeezed.

“I've got him,” Formosus said quietly, “now remove the chain from around his neck and unlock the cuff on your wrist. Hurry if you want to save me, because I'm not going without you.” Astonished, Iason released the Roman from the chain's stranglehold, grabbed the keys from Formosus' lap and unlocked the shackle around his wrist with trembling hands. “Now the door,” Formosus said. Iason unlocked it quietly and carefully.

“Now what?” Iason hissed, “as soon as you let him go he will cry out or try to go after us.”

“I doubt it,” Formosus said coldly. “You disgusting piece of offal,” he spat at the slave hunter in his grip. Iason saw Formosus flick his wrist and, after an audible snap, the Roman suddenly went limp.

“Formosus?” Iason tried to make sense of what he had seen. Coolly, the Celt got to his feet.

“Quiet,” Formosus cautioned, “now to find our way out.”

“What...” Iason stammered.

“I broke his neck,” Formosus explained, “there was no other way. Anyway, he deserved it.” Iason looked at the tall man with puzzlement. This was a side to Formosus that he had not anticipated. Perhaps even the meek are bound to turn at some point, Iason thought, but on the other hand, perhaps Formosus was not as sweet and gentle as he appeared to be on the surface.

*

Marcus was distraught. He had followed Formosus to a large building which proudly advertised itself as a slave-trader's auction house. He had to get the Celt out of there, it was all his fault. At first he contemplated sending a messenger to his father and begging him for money, as he would hardly have enough of his own to buy a slave of Formosus' calibre, but he was fairly sure that the only thing that would be forthcoming from his father would be a few choice words about immature youths who become infatuated with seductive and unprincipled slaves.

The only thing he could do was to try and free Formosus. If he managed to release Formosus, Marcus reasoned, then the Celt would be grateful, humble and full of admiration for him. It would be a small step from there to get Formosus to feel affection for his saviour, and later, maybe even more. Gone would be the exasperated look that Formosus often directed at him, the roll of the eyes when he said something Formosus considered stupid and the sigh of irritation. Instead Formosus would praise his intelligence and resourcefulness, and admire his bravery and tenacity. Marcus had to get inside the building and rescue the object of his desire.  
It was past midnight before Marcus considered it safe to enter the building. Before that there had been people entering and leaving the building, lamps had flickered behind the windows and the sound of voices had been audible. Marcus had already located a back gate which had not been locked, he had tried all the gates, doors and windows. When he was sure that all was quiet, he pulled the gate open and slipped inside.  
Marcus found himself inside a compound. When his eyes had adjusted themselves to the darkness, he could see that this would be where the slaves were auctioned off. There was a small stage on which there was a block for the slave to stand on. Chairs were stacked at the back of the courtyard. Looking around, Marcus located a door to the right of the compound. Keeping close to the walls, he sneaked towards the door and tried it. It was firmly locked, but next to it was a half open window. Marcus was slim enough to push through the narrow opening, but he doubted that the far taller Celt would be able to escape that way. Marcus would have to find another way out. Too elated at his successful entry to think far ahead, Marcus tried to imagine where in this large building a slave would be kept prior to being auctioned. To the left, the corridor turned into what appeared to be the slave trader's living quarters. To the right there was a stairway leading down into a cellar. This, Marcus decided, was where Formosus must be.  
It was dark on the staircase, and even darker in the cellar. For a second Marcus thought he made out the low hum of voices, but it was gone before he was even sure he had really heard anything, and he decided that he had imagined it. Sneaking close to the wall, Marcus turned a corner in almost complete darkness and nearly shouted when he came straight up against the warm body of another person. In fact, he would have shouted if he could have, but immediately two large, long-fingered hands wrapped themselves around his neck, depriving him not only of speech, but also of air. Gasping and fighting, trying desperately to draw a breath and ward off his attacker at the same time, Marcus was sure his last moments had come. It crossed his mind that he had never managed to finish the statue he had invested so much effort and emotion in. Strange, that the statue was to be his last thought. Then Marcus' senses clouded and he knew no more.  
*

“What happened?” Iason hissed.

“Andraste, no,” Formosus moaned, “what have I done?”

“Shut up!” Iason shook Formosus by the shoulder. “We have to go.”

“But this is Marcus, the sculptor!” Formosus wailed. “What is he doing here?”

“Shh,” Iason whispered, “we don't have time. Leave him or pick him up and carry him, but move, man!” Iason's urgency finally got through to the Celt and, picking up the sculptor's lifeless body and slinging it over his shoulder with ease, he followed Iason up the steps leading from the cellar to the corridor above.

It was quiet on the floor above, the slave hunter who was supposed to watch them was dead, and the other inhabitants of the house were either asleep or in a drunken stupor. The slave hunter Formosus had killed had reeked of wine and he probably hadn't been the only one to have overindulged in anticipation of the riches that the next day's auction would bring them. It made Iason smile to think of their disappointment. He wondered briefly if there had been other slaves incarcerated in the cellar and whether he should have freed them, but first and foremost he wanted to get Formosus out of harm's way. He would worry about other things, such as why a man like Formosus who had led such a sheltered life with his master was so well acquainted with quick and noiseless murder techniques. He was determined to get the taciturn Celt to speak. Then of course there was the little matter of the man Formosus was currently carrying over his shoulder. But first, they had to find a way out of the building.  
“It's locked!” Formosus tugged at the door at the top of the stairs. Next to the stair was the window, but Formosus had no hope of getting through the narrow entrance as Marcus had, certainly not with the lifeless sculptor still slung on his back.  
“Be quiet!” Iason hissed, “step aside.” Iason produced the ring of keys they had taken away from the dead slave hunter. He tried two of the keys, but the third one fitted the lock. As he turned it, there was a sound in the corridor leading to the living apartment. As Iason pulled open the door, there was a shout. The slave trader's servant had either heard them, or he had been patrolling the corridor. When he saw them quickly push through the open door, he broke into a run. Formosus quickly closed the door and Iason locked it. They found themselves in the enclosed courtyard where the auction would obviously take place. Iason focused on the gate.

“What if it's locked?” Formosus fretted, but it was open, and the two men rushed out of the gate, Formosus still carrying the sculptor over his shoulder as if his weight was nothing to him.

When they had turned the first corner, they heard the shouts of their pursuers. The servant had evidently roused the other members of the household who had left by the front door to chase the fugitive slaves. They ran for several minutes, the slave hunters still behind them, when Formosus drew to a halt sharply. Iason almost ran into him.  
“What are you doing? We need to move!” Iason said sharply.

“Down here,” Formosus instructed and began to run down an alley. Iason followed him. Formosus seemed to know where he was going. He turned left, then right, and then led the way into a road leading down towards the sea. Iason strained his ears but he could hear no one behind them.

“I think we've lost them,” he told Formosus, but the Celt wasn't listening. He had come to a halt in front of a high wall which apparently shielded a large villa from view. Carefully Formosus dumped the still lifeless form of the sculptor on the ground.

“Wait here,” he nodded at Iason, “I will open the gate from the inside.”

“Are you mad?” Iason whispered, “you can't just break into a house!”

“Can't I?” Formosus answered, “watch me.”

With apparent ease, Formosus scaled the high wall. Iason watched as the muscles in his strong arms stood out while he pulled himself up to the top of the wall. He slung his long legs over it and, with a final look at Iason over his shoulder, he dropped to the other side noiselessly. And there Iason waited. At one point, he thought he heard a strangled cry, but then all was silent again.  
Formosus dropped into utter darkness on the other side of the wall. It was a cloudy night, and not even the moon illuminated the pitch-blackness. He shuffled forward, making no sound, feeling his way along the wall to find the gate that he hoped could be unlocked from the inside. The villa was unattended and empty, Formosus was as sure of that as he could be sure of anything. So when just as suddenly and silently, someone crept up behind him, someone who must have been feeling their way or being guided by the tiny sounds he was making alone, Formosus was so surprised that he would have shouted if he hadn't felt a strong hand twist his arm behind his back painfully and a knife settle against his throat from behind so forcefully that he could feel a trickle of blood run down his neck. From the stealth and skill with which his attacker had crept up on him, Formosus could easily tell that the person holding a knife to his neck was no ordinary household guard or slave, but an experienced fighter. He dared not move an inch.  
“Your name,” a man's voice growled into his ear, “or I will slit your throat where you stand.”


	16. Chapter 16

Formosus froze. Then his brain started working again. The voice was familiar, and so was the feeling of the arms wrapped around him, although they never had never handled him roughly before, nor held a knife to his throat. He could feel the knife pull away from his skin slightly; the other man had realised it, too. They were no strangers.  
“Formosus?” the voice close to his ear hissed.

“Let me go, you fool,” Formosus growled, “are you alone here?”

“Yes, that's... what are you doing here?” Formosus felt himself released and turned to face the other man. He could see little in the darkness, just the outline of his body.

“Can we open the side gate?” Formosus demanded, “we can talk later.”

“I need a lantern...”

“Get the lantern,” Formosus interrupted impatiently, “I'll open the gate. Is the key in the lock?”

“Yes, it is. All right. I'll get some light.” The other man moved off towards the villa, and Formosus felt his way along the wall until he got to the side gate, which he opened.

Iason was kneeling next to Marcus, who was groaning quietly and holding his throat.  
“What happened?” Marcus croaked hoarsely, then he looked up and saw Formosus' silhouette appear in the shadows behind the open gate. “Thank Jupiter,” he said when he recognised Formosus, “you're free.”

“Inside.” Formosus gestured to Iason with his head to go through the gate, then he bent down and lifted Marcus into his arms easily. Marcus smiled and wrapped an affectionate arm around Formosus neck. The Celt could not quite prevent himself from rolling his eyes and sighing. As relieved he was that he had caused the sculptor no permanent damage, Marcus' puppy-like adoration of his person hat not ceased to annoy him. Well, when Marcus found out that Formosus had almost killed him, his ardour would be dampened no doubt. He locked the door behind them carefully. The slave hunters would be looking for them, and perhaps they had also alarmed the soldiers stationed in Ostia, too. After all, he had killed a man. He turned towards his friend, who was approaching, holding up a lantern.

“What happened to the messenger boy? Well, never mind, we should go inside first. We need to talk.” Junius turned back to the villa, lighting the way across the courtyard with the lantern, with Iason and Formosus, who was still carrying the elated Marcus, close behind him.

Formosus and Iason followed Junius into Titus Cassius' villa. It was sumptious and, in the dimly lit room that Junius led them into, the sea could be heard through the open window. Junius gestured towards a low couch.  
“Put the messenger boy down here,” he told Formosus, “I'll get some water.”

“I'm not a messenger boy,” Marcus rasped in protest. Neither Formosus nor his pretty friend seemed to take him remotely seriously, although neither of them were more than a year older than he. Both of them acted as if he were a boy.

“I know you're not,” Junius grinned evilly, “but sculptor does not have the same ring to it.” Smoothing his ornately embroidered toga down over his narrow hips, Junius left the room to get water from the kitchen.

Iason watched the stranger leave. Superficially, everything about Junius seemed designed to please the eye. His nose was delicate and straight, his eyes dreamy and a pale, shifting, blue-green colour. His light-brown hair waved prettily and there was a delightful nest of freckles on the bridge of his nose. He was slender, but athletic, and his voice was soft, with just a little hoarse edge to it. Iason may not have been able to see past Formosus' gentle sweetness, but he was sure that there was more to Junius than met the eye. Whoever the man was, there was something in the sharp slant of his high cheekbones, in his strong, stubborn jawline and in the set of those pretty, long-lashed eyes that made Iason think that Junius was a very dangerous man.  
“Who is he?” Iason asked Formosus, “and where have you led us?”  
“This villa belongs to Senator Titus Cassius,” Formosus explained, “and he,” here he gestured towards the door that Junius had just left through, “is the Senator's slave and my friend. He and the Senator helped me escape from Rome. Titus Cassius was very close to my own Master.”

“I see,” Iason answered slowly. He looked up as Junius reentered the room with an amphore full of water and a cup. Sitting down on the couch next to Marcus, he poured out some water for the sculptor to drink and handed it to him. With his beautifully manicured fingers, Junius touched the bruises on Marcus' throat carefully.

“Who tried to strangle you, messenger boy?” he asked, teasing gently.

“I don't know,” Marcus began.

“I did,” Formosus interrupted. There was a hush. Both Junius and Marcus stared at the tall Celt.

“Surely he can't have been that irritating,” Junius laughed nervously.

“Shut up, Junius,” Formosus said, pacing the floor. “Iason and I were caught by slave-hunters and brought to Ostia, to a slave trader.”

“Iason?” Junius queried. Formosus nodded towards where the Greek had taken a chair next to the window.

“Him,” Formosus answered tersely, “he's a slave. From Greece. We escaped and I ran into the sculptor in the darkness. I thought he was one of the slave hunters and I started to choke him. But he didn't fight back, so I stopped. I'm sorry.” Formosus looked at Marcus briefly, then dropped his eyes.

“I don't understand,” Junius retorted, “what were you doing in a slave trader's house in the first place, messenger boy?”

“My name is Marcus,” the sculptor said angrily, pushing Junius' hand away from his throat although he was enjoying the soft touches, “and I went there to free him. Apparently I was nearly killed for my trouble.”

“I said I was sorry,” Formosus scowled.

“You should be thankful,” Iason told Marcus, “he killed the slave hunter who molested him outright. He snapped his neck like a twig.”

“What?” Junius stared at Formosus, then he smiled. “So you've finally come to your senses, countryman.”

“I do not know what you mean,” Formosus snarled.

“He had borne more that could be reasonably expected of anyone, man or woman,” Iason felt compelled to explain, “he could stand no more. That miserable creature, who could neither keep his hands nor his eyes off Formosus, was the only obstacle between us and freedom. If he hadn't killed him, he would have had to leave me behind.” For some reason, Iason felt he needed to excuse Formosus; the surprise on the face of Junius, who had obviously known Formosus for years, echoed his own feeling that Formosus' behaviour was somehow untypical for him.

“Oh, I'm not blaming him,” Junius smiled, “he has suffered greatly. He is perfectly entitled to defend himself.” Junius got up from his seat next to Marcus on the couch and walked over to Iason.

“You are Greek?” Junius addressed him.

“From Thebes,” Iason confirmed.

“Whose slave?” The greeny-blue eyes probed into Iason's own brown ones.

“I was private secretary and accountant to Tarquinius Priscus,” Iason answered.

“Who, by all accounts, certainly needs one,” Junius smiled. “I am sure you will be sorely missed. My Master and his friends sometimes discussed his stupidity. He wanted very much to be admitted to the Senate, as you probably know.”

“I know,” Iason nodded, “and who are you?” Junius raised a curved eyebrow.

“I am Junius, Titus Cassius,” here he smirked, “personal slave. I do whatever he requires of me. But accounting is not among my talents.”

“I assume you have others,” Iason answered, who had the definite feeling that Junius was weighing him up. “You are a Celt, like Formosus?” Junius nodded.

From Britannia, like Formosus,” he agreed.

“And are all Celts as handsome as you and Formosus are?” Iason enquired. A slow smile spread over Junius' face.

“You are a flatterer, Theban,” he told Iason, “and clever enough to assume that vanity is my weakness. But to answer your question: No, we are not all handsome. Are all Greeks as clever and devious as you are, Theban?”

“Many,” Iason allowed, “but not all.”

“Why aren't you in Rome?” Formosus demanded suddenly, “you were in Rome when I left, just two days ago.”

“Master sent me here,” Junius sighed and walked over to his friend. “I told you that he was worried that it might be dangerous to stay in Rome; dangerous for me especially. There are rumours of a conspiracy among the slaves, among the Celtic slaves more specifically. Did you not hear of it? I know that Senator Quintus Aelius told you everything.”

“He was strange in the last few days before his death, preoccupied. He hardly spoke. I thought it was because the Augurs foretold his death.” Formosus sat down heavily. “Perhaps that is why he cautioned me to leave Rome in his letter.”

“There are always rumours in Rome of uprisings.” Junius sat down in the chair next to his compatriot. “If you had managed to reach the villa in Tibur you no doubt would have found out more. I do not know what else Quintus Aelius was involved in, but he must have had reason to fear for his life.” A frown crossed Junius' smooth face. “I wish Master had come with me, but he is determined to deliver the eulogy to Quintus Aelius.”

“Is there any truth in the rumour that the Celtic slaves are planning to rebel?” Formosus demanded.

“How would I know?” Junius returned aggressively. “Just because I am not completely indifferent to the plight of our people, just because I have not forgotten my name and my origins does not make me a conspirator!”

“I had my reasons!” Formosus snarled at Junius.

“Your reason being that you were so childishly infatuated with your Master that you completely forgot those who loved you and died for you,” Junius barked, jumping to his feet.

“What do you mean?” Formosus leapt up and lunged at Junius, backing him against the wall. His face was pale with rage.

“Have you forgotten your Aunt,” Junius replied coldly, “who died for all of you? Her daughters who were sisters to you? Have you forgotten Brigo?”

“Stop it!” Formosus shouted, shaking Junius by the shoulders, “don't ever say his name again!”

“You should both stop it,” Iason intervened, getting up and pulling Formosus's hands from Junius' shoulders. “You can argue later. At the moment we have more pressing issues to deal with.” Both men turned to look at Iason attentively. “Firstly, we are being hunted as fugitive slaves. Secondly, Formosus killed one of the slave hunters and is now also a fugitive from justice. Thirdly, if there is even just the rumour of a revolt among the Celtic slaves, the Romans will react with their customary severity and kill many of you, whether the rumour is true or not, and send many more to their deaths in the arenas as a deterrent. So perhaps we should deal with the many immediate threats to our safety.”

“You have forgotten fourthly,” Junius said dully, “Quintus Aelius' murder still has not been resolved. Until it is, Formosus will be considered the guilty party. If he is found, he is as good as dead.” He turned to the tall Celt. “Even if I could kill you myself at times because of your stubbornness and stupidity, Countryman, I could not bear to think that so many good people died in the hope that you would live, only to meet you in the Other World and find their hopes dashed.” He turned to where Marcus had sat up on the couch and was looking on with a dazed expression, rubbing his neck gingerly. “you should go home, messenger boy,” Junius said gently, “I know you will keep what you have heard to yourself. Even though this blockhead,” here he cuffed Formosus none too gently, “almost murdered you, you still love him.” The sculptor looked down at his hands and blushed.

“You don't love me,” Formosus adressed the young sculptor roughly, “you just think you love me. All you really want is to fuck me. Perhaps I should let you, so that you can get over me.”

“How can you be so cruel?” Junius said softly, “you know very well what love feels like. Who are you to judge him? You should live up to your name. Your real name.”

“Like you live up to yours?” Formosus spat at Junius.

“Perhaps we should rest,” Iason interrupted, “tempers are frayed because we are all very tired.”

“You are right, Greek, this house has enough beds for us all to sleep in. Follow me.” Abruptly, Junius led the way out of the room, into the Atrium and up the stairs to the sleeping chambers. By the stiffness of his shoulders Iason could see that he was very angry. Any kind of emotion Formosus might have experienced seemed to have dissipated. He was his usual withdrawn and quiet self again. When they got to the top of the stairs, Junius pointed to the end of the corridor.

“If you wish, you can take the room you shared with your master when you were here last,” he said to Formosus. The tall Celt nodded and addressed Marcus.

“You could share with me,” he said gently, “I am afraid to sleep alone, I have bad dreams. Perhaps you would be less lonely, too.”

“I don't want...” the sculptor began.

“I know you don't,” Formosus intervened, “and I am sorry for what I said. I am only asking for your company.” A smile ghosted over the sculptor's face.

“Then yes,” he anwered. Iason watched them retire to the room at the end of the corridor. He looked at Junius, whose face was still angry.

“I don't share,” Junius said with a tiny smile, “unless you were a female, which you quite obviously are not. But I dare say you know that much about me already.” Iason bowed his head in acknowledgement. “You are very quiet, Greek, you listen and you draw your own conclusions. My countryman angers me, but I would nonetheless die for him.”

“He is lucky to have you as a friend, and not as an enemy,” Iason answered carefully.

“Shrewd, Greek, very shrewd.” Junius grinned broadly and he suddenly looked like the superficial, pretty and vacuous young man that everyone imagined him to be. “Sleep well, you can take the bedroom next to mine.” Smiling prettily and a little seductively, he retired to his room. Iason stood for a moment in the corridor, trying to piece together what he had heard. It would soon be sunrise, and they all needed some rest. As soon as his head hit the soft pillow, he was asleep.

Formosus carelessly pulled off the clothing he had been given by the slave trader, and slung it to one side. He felt the sculptor's eyes on his body and turned to him with a little smile.  
“You've seen it before,” he mumbled and slid into the bed. “Come and sleep.” He turned away while Marcus disrobed and got under the covers next to him, carefully arranging himself so that he didn't touch Formosus, who leaned over to extinguish the lamp. Then he turned over to face Marcus.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

“What for?” Marcus asked.

“For trying to save me,” the Celt answered. Tentatively Marcus reached out and touched Formosus' thick, chestnut-coloured hair with his fingertips. When Formosus closed his large, green and golden eyes, Marcus continued to stroke his hair gently. Formosus soon slept, breathing deeply.

*

Formosus woke suddenly. He hated it when he awoke in the night and his master was not lying in the bed next to him. He still felt intimidated by the strange house, the people who stared at him, some of them friendly, some of them hostile, and some of them with the glint in their eyes that Formosus now well recognised. Rome was still strange to him, and he still did not understand all that was said to him in Latin, although Master always praised him and said that he was a quick learner, which made Formosus proud.

Nightmares plagued the boy's sleep, and when he cried in his sleep or snuggled close to his master, the other man would smile sleepily at him, murmur words of comfort and wrap a strong arm around his shoulders. When he was not there, Formosus panicked.  
Formosus slid out of bed, opened the door of the bed chamber and sneaked into the corridor. He could hear raised voices coming from the Atrium, one of them his Master's. Following the sound, he could make out some of the words that were being said as he came closer.

“I don't want to know,” his Master was saying firmly and quite loudly, “it upsets him to speak of it and it is of no consequence. He is here now, and I will not speak of his past to him, it hurts him. He has bad dreams as it is. I will not remind him.”

“But Junius is certain,” the second voice said, and Formosus identified Titus Cassius as its owner, one of his Master's closest friends and the owner of a Celtic slave roughly his own age, “he has seen him before.”

“Junius was a child when he was taken from Britannia, he is mistaken.” Quintus Aelius sounded angry. “Who knows how much of what he has told you is true. The son of the late King of the Trinovantes indeed,” he scoffed.

“Junius is not like that,” Titus Cassius answered softly, “he always tells me the truth.”

“I will not ask Formosus and that is final,” Quintus Aelius retorted, “he is safe here, whoever he is, and I intend to keep him so.”

“Master,” Formosus called, propelling himself into the other man's arms. Quintus Aelius rocked him soothingly.

“We are going back to bed, Formosus,” he said, ruffling the boy's thick brown hair, “there is nothing to worry about.”

*

Startled, Formosus sat up. Every time he dreamt of his Master, his mind entertained the short illusion that Quintus Aelius was not really dead and that it had all been a bad dream. Then he would look at the space in the bed next to him and find it empty. But tonight it was not empty. The tousled hair of the sculptor moved on the pillow, and he blinked at Formosus with sleepy eyes.

“It's all right,” he mumbled, reaching out a hand to take hold of Formosus' arm and pull him close, “it was just a dream. Go back to sleep.” Marcus put his arm around Formosus' waist, sliding next to the other man. Formosus sighed and lay back down. Comforted by the other man's presence, he slipped into a deep and untroubled sleep.


	17. Chapter 17

When Iason awoke, all was still quiet in the house. There were no slaves or servants to get up at dawn and prepare food, and they had gone to bed very late. Iason wandered through the villa looking for the bathroom that every modern and luxurious house would have installed. He was sure that he would be the only one of them to get up relatively early as he needed little sleep, and so he was surprised to see Junius sitting outside on a bench in a little walled garden, staring at a fish pond full of water lilies. He wandered outside, and Junius looked up, his bright eyes pale and unreadable in the morning sun.  
“Couldn't you sleep, Theban?” he smiled at Iason when he entered his line of vision. Iason sat down next to the Celt.

“I never sleep for very long,” Iason answered, “and you?”

“I am worried,” Junius answered, “my sleep was short and troubled.”

“Worried?” Iason echoed.

“I am worried that my Master is in danger, and that he might be murdered like Quintus Aelius,” Junius explained, “and I am worried for my idiot countryman and friend, Formosus. Without his Master to tell him what to do he is like a child.”

“Formosus is growing up,” Iason replied, “and he is learning fast. And I think he is remembering skills that served him well in the past. He killed the slave hunter which enabled us both to escape, and he refused to leave me although it would have been the far easier course of action.”

“He would never have left you,” Junius scoffed, “he is nothing if not honourable.”

“Who is he?” Iason probed. Junius shrugged.

“That secret is not mine to tell,” he answered.

“Then who are you?” Iason insisted, “or perhaps: who were you before you were brought to Rome?” Junius laughed briefly, but a look of pain crossed his face.

“Apart from my Master and Senator Quintus Aelius, no one knows who I am, and in the light of the Roman fear of revolt among the slaves it is better that way. But you are neither a Celt, nor a Roman, and you are a fellow slave. Who would believe you?” Junius looked at Iason. “For some reason I trust you. Sometimes I feel it would be a relief to unburden myself of my memories.”

“Tell me,” Iason urged, “what is your name?”

“My parents named me Drest,” Junius explained, “but as a child I was always called Drestan, little Drest in our language.”

“Drest, a strange name,” Iason said, “my Master has an extensive library that he inherited from his grandfather and has never even visited once to my knowledge, and there are scrolls I have read about the Celtic customs and languages. I seem to recall it has a meaning.”

“You are well read,” Junius agreed, “ the name means riot, but it is quite a common name nonetheless and it has no deeper significance.” Junius fell silent, his brow furrowed.

“Do you belong to the same tribe as Formosus?” Iason asked, trying to get Junius to talk again.

“What?” Junius looked up, his eyes glazed over. “No,” he responded slowly, “Formosus is one of the Iceni, one of the few who are left if the accounts I have heard and read are correct. I belong to the Trinovantes. The Iceni are our neighbours and we share many customs with them. My people were more friendly towards the Romans than the Iceni. But the Iceni King Prasutagos was on good terms with the Romans, too. The trouble started after he died and his wife Boudicca became queen of the Iceni. But Formosus could tell you that story better than I can, I dare say.”

“So tell me your story,” Iason insisted, “how did you end up as a slave to a Roman senator?”

“I was sold,” Junius said, “a high-ranking Roman officer took a liking to me and my uncle sold me. I was eleven years old. My father had died, and I don't know if my mother has ever found out what happened to me. My uncle wanted me out of the way. He didn't dare to kill me so he made sure I was taken out of the country.”

“Why did your uncle want you gone?” Iason asked, curiously.

“My father was Addedo, King of the Trinovantes,” Junius explained. His voice was toneless as if he was reciting facts that had nothing to do with himself. “He was named after Addedomaros, Addedo the Great King of old. He died in a skirmish on the borders, and his brother took over the throne as I was too young to ascend. He liked his position as King, and I was in the way. My mother was a simple, kind woman who had no ambition to lead her people as Boudicca did after the death of Prasutagos, so all my uncle had to do to obtain the kingship was to get rid of me, which he did.”

“Was it Titus Cassius who bought you from your uncle?” Iason inquired. Junius looked up and laughed.

“By Andraste, no,” he smiled, “Titus Cassius would hardly have kidnapped a child and taken it away from its mother. And I could not love him if he had. The man was an officer; Titus Cassius was never a soldier. This man died soon after we got to Rome. I was auctioned off after his death as his wife had no use for a traumatised twelve-year-old. Titus Cassius saw me and bought me. I have known nothing but kindness from him. He treats me as an equal and I consider him my friend.”

“You are nonetheless his slave,” Iason intervened.

“I dare say he would free me if I asked him to,” Junius told him, “but I am safe living as his slave in his household. Also, I owe him a debt of gratitude. I consider it not only my duty, but also my pleasure to repay him with my obedience and affection.” Iason looked at Junius with amusement.

“I find it hard to reconcile the image of an obedient slave with the impression I have of you.” Junius' pretty face broke into a wide smile.

“Luckily Titus Cassius is a tolerant man,” he laughed. “He knows he can rely on me implicitly, and if I have the odd tryst with a young lady, or embark upon some other ill-advised project he wisely overlooks it. He is a good man. Which is why, to come full circle, I am worried about him.”

“The man who bought you died shortly after you arrived in Rome, you say?” Iason asked. Junius raised a perfectly curved eyebrow.

“You ask too many questions, Greek,” he sighed. “I appreciate that your people have an unusual thirst for knowledge, or so it is said, but I have told you more than most know and I am not prepared to tell you any more.”

“Just one more thing,” Iason pleaded. Junius looked at him, exasperated.

“What is it, insufferable Hellene?” he huffed.

“I would like to know Formosus' name, the one his parents gave him.” Iason looked questioningly at Junius.

“I can't...” Junius began.

“I'll tell you myself,” a gentle voice interrupted. Formosus' tall, lean shape loomed in front of them. He had come into the garden, unheard, and was standing before them stark naked, his golden skin bathed in sunlight. “Elisedd,” he breathed, “my name was Elisedd. It means 'kind' in our language. It does not fit me any more.”

*

Marcus paced the room. He cursed his lack of self-control. It had been the wrong time to accost Formosus, just as he seemed to be softening towards him. Now there was no hope he would ever get what he wanted from the Celt. But then, probably there never had been and he had been fooling himself all along. He drew a deep breath and left the bedroom, hoping that Formosus would not mention the fact that he had just unsuccessfully pleaded with the Celt to fuck him.

*

“Get dressed.” Junius rolled his eyes.

“I don't want to wear the clothes the slave hunter gave me,” Formosus growled sullenly.

“You know where my room is,” Junius sighed, “get something from there. I have enough clothes.” Formosus grunted and shuffled back into the villa. “Really, Quintus Aelius should have taught him some manners,” Junius complained, “instead of spoiling him and telling him how perfect he is all the time.”

“Something I'm sure your Master never would do,” Graecus remarked with a raised eyebrow. Junius grinned.

“I know how to behave, Formosus does not,” he answered smugly. Formosus re-entered the garden, one of Junius' ornately embroidered tunicas roughly slung on. Due to his height it only just covered the tops of his thighs.

“Better?” he said bad-temperedly.

“Better than nothing, I suppose,” Junius responded. “Where is Marcus? Still asleep?”

“I don't know,” Formosus mumbled, looking away.

“What do you mean?” Junius persisted, “you slept in the same room. Where is he?”

“Gone, I don't know,” Formosus snapped.

“You mean he has left?” Junius shook his head in disbelief. “Did you argue?” Formosus coloured. “I can't say.”

“I'm here.” Marcus appeared in the open doorway. “I was looking for you. I could not find you.” Junius looked at him. There was something odd about the sculptor, he guessed that there had been some kind of argument with Formosus. The Celt's manner was similarly furtive, almost bashful.

“We should eat,” Junius suggested, and got up from the bench to walk towards the house. He considered himself a rational man, but he had a sense of foreboding and of trouble to come. Junius had to admit to himself that he was sick with worry about Titus Cassius and that he was capable of doing anything, anything at all, if there was a chance that he could protect the man who was closest to his heart.

“I think we should pack and just leave,” Marcus said several times while they were preparing breakfast. He was jumpy and nervous, and took pains to avoid getting too close to Formosus. The tall Celt, on the other hand, seemed to have completely forgotten about the sculptor's advances and was his usual taciturn self, answering questions with a grunt and staring into the middle distance, his golden and green eyes blank and preoccupied.  
“We eat first, then we leave,” Junius barked, his worry making him bad-tempered.

“You're coming too?” Graecus asked.

“Well you will need someone resourceful,” Junius grinned wryly, “and there is nothing I can do from here. I cannot return to Rome, so I might as well wait for my Master in Tibur. I will send a messenger to him after breakfast telling him to join me there as soon as possible.” Formosus looked over at his friend gratefully and smiled, the first time he had smiled in a long time. “You should go home, sculptor,” Junius adressed Marcus gently, “this is not your battle to fight.” Marcus coloured.

“I want to help,” Marcus answered. He was aware of the fact that he sounded like a petulant child.

“Listen.” Junius put down the spoon in his hand. “There are people who can love only one person all their lives. Their love is so consuming that they cannot let another person into their heart. Formosus is such a person. He will never love anyone but Quintus Aelius as long as he lives. You must understand that.” Marcus slammed down the knive in his hand and rushed out of the kitchen. “Well, someone had to say it,” Junius addressed Graecus and Formosus, who were both staring at him.

Hardly a minute had passed when they heard a commotion outside. Someone was bashing against the outside gate, and voices were shouting.  
“Open the gate, or I will force my way in!” There was the sound of splintering wood, and the noise of shouts and people running. Horrified, the three slaves stared at one another.

“Run,” Junius pushed Formosus and Graecus, “get out of the window and over the garden wall, I'll delay them.” But it was too late, five men entered the kitchen, knives drawn, and pounced on the slaves. They were followed by another man; Formosus recognised him immediately. It was the slave trader.

“Tie them,” he told the men, nodding towards Graecus and Junius, “we're leaving them here.”

“But what about the reward for him?” one of the men asked, nodding at Graecus.

“And this one would fetch a lot of money.” The slave hunter restraining Junius leered and nodded.

“Idiot,” the slave trader sneered, “he belongs to a rich and powerful man who would kill me if I stole his favourite slave. Leave the Greek, too. The reward money for him is nothing compared to what we will get for this one.” He slapped Formosus' thigh. “Thought you could get away, did you? Well, you should choose your friends with more care. I have a room full of prospective customers lined up to see you.”

“I killed a man,” Formosus protested, “you should hand me over to the authorities.”

“It would be difficult to explain my activities to the Praetores,” the slave trader grinned, “seeing as I should have handed you over before. I have disposed of the body. You can repay your debt by being on your best behaviour with your prospective buyers.”

“you can't take him!” Junius struggled with his captor.

“Lock them up,” the slave trader instructed, “we'll get him back to be tidied up for inspection. We mustn't keep the customers waiting.” Formosus tried to fight, but there were too many hands restraining him. He was gagged and bound, then bundled into a cart. As it rattled down the street he wished once again that he had died together with Quintus Aelius, his Master, the only man he would ever love.


	18. Chapter 18

Quintus Aelius had never ordered Formosus to kneel down next to him while he sat, the slave just did it of his own accord. At first it had seemed strange, as if a very large cat had suddenly attached itself to his person. After a while, though, Quintus' hand would settle on Formosus' head without him even thinking about it and caress the thick, chestnut hair. Quintus assumed that, as a boy, Formosus just craved the closeness, but, grown to manhood, Formosus would still kneel next to his Master as soon as Quintus sat. Today though, Formosus' proximity was decidedly distracting. The slave wanted something, and it was quite obvious what. His head in Quintus' lap was edging towards his Master's genitals, and he was all but mouthing them through the material of the Roman's toga.  
“Formosus,” Quintus cautioned in a low, stern voice.

“Master?” the Celt looked up, a playful expression on his face.

“Not now, I am busy.” Quintus continued to pore over the his accounts. Apart from the house in Rome and the villa in Tibur, he also owned land in Campania which was leased to several smallholders. Formosus kept the accounts in admirable shape, but Quintus was considering selling some of the land and investing the money elsewhere.

“Your slave is not doing anything,” Formosus complained. Quintus looked down and raised an eyebrow. Formosus was being disingenuous, one of his favourite ploys.

“If I sell this land,” Quintus said, ignoring Formosus' obvious attempts to distract him, “we could buy more land in Tibur. We could extend the garden and make it into a park. Or build a new villa.” He felt Formosus stiffen.

“Of course Master can do as Master pleases,” Formosus responded sullenly, answering formally as he did when he was annoyed, “but if Master is asking this humble slave's opinion, I think the villa at Tibur is perfect.” Quintus smiled. He knew that Formosus' love for the little villa in the lovely garden at Tibur surpassed even his own. Obviously he did not want anything changed.

“Not even a larger garden?” Quintus smiled.

“No,” Formosus said darkly, frowning up at his Master.

“Get up,” Quintus ordered. Formosus obeyed, his chin pushed forward stubbornly. “Now disrobe.” Formosus brightened at this, at least he might now get his Master's attention. He pulled off his tunica and underwear, distracted because he was watching his Master do the same. He wondered why they had not retired to the bedroom. Quintus Aelius stood in front of the Celt. Formosus could feel his member swell at the sight of the Roman's hard, muscled body, the trail of dark hair leading from his belly button down to his crotch. Formosus swallowed. “We'll wrestle,” Quintus said, “let us see how well I have taught you. The winner decides what we do about the land.” Formosus scowled. He had hoped that Master would forget about the land and make love instead.

“As Master wishes,” he responded sourly.

Long limbed and tall, Formosus was at a definite disadvantage in a wrestling contest, but his strong thighs clamped around the Roman's body like a vice and only with the sheer force of his broad, muscular shoulders and arms could Quintus Aelius extract himself from the slave's grip. Formosus was hard; rolling on the floor with his Master was almost unbearably arousing. The Roman tried to push him onto his back but Formosus resisted, his legs tangling with the other man's as he panted, half with arousal, half with the strain of holding Quintus Aelius back. The Roman gripped one of Formosus' buttocks hard, sliding his fingers into the crack. Formosus moaned.  
“Master is unfair,” he pouted.

“You let yourself be distracted too easily.” Quintus Aelius looked down at Formosus' erection. The fingers brushed over the slave's hole. Formosus moaned again, it was all he could do not to come. His grip on the Roman's arm slipped, and he felt himself tossed onto his back. “I win,” the Senator whispered, straddling the slave and leaning down so that the words brushed Formosus' lips. The Celt struggled against his Master angrily and turned his head away.

“What about the villa?” he growled.

“It stays as it is of course,” Quintus Aelius said seriously, “as it is so important to you.” Formosus looked up.

“Master likes his little joke,” he said, half relieved, half sulkily.

“Master does,” Quintus Aelius agreed, getting off Formosus and pulling the slave's legs up to rest on his shoulders, - but I would never do anything that would hurt you, why do you not know that? - was what he thought as he entered Formosus gently but firmly, one hand wrapped around the other man's erection, pumping it slowly.

*

Formosus had been standing on the block in the slave trader's compound all day, being prodded and probed, inspected and squeezed. He had managed to retreat into the furthermost corner of his mind, reliving his memories of happier days when his Master was still alive and his worries were trivial. He was chained to the trader's frame, he could hardly move a muscle so he didn't try. People looked into his ears and eyes, opened his mouth to see his teeth, fondled his genitals and smoothed their hands over his skin. No one spoke to him, he had the strange feeling of not really being there at all. It was as if he were floating above himself looking down at his body being pinched and poked, examined and inspected.

“There's one more,” the slave-trader's servant said in a hushed voice. Formosus didn't bother to look up. No one seemed to care whether or not he was sentient, no one seemed to consider him a living, breathing human being at all.

Sir, please come closer Sir,” the slave trader spouted obsequiously. There were quiet steps coming towards him. “This is the slave, a beautiful specimen, a picture of health...” a soft voice with a strange accent interrupted him. Formosus felt a hand on his hair.

“What is your name?” the voice said. At first Formosus didn't realise that the voice was talking to him. No one had addressed him directly before. Then the slave trader prodded him roughly.

“You heard the gentleman, answer!” he ordered. Formosus focused on the man in front of him. His skin was light brown, his eyes and hair dark. He had an intelligent, gentle face.

“Formosus,” he answered hoarsely, his voice rough from disuse, his throat dry.

“He is thirsty,” the stranger said, “give him something to drink. But first, untie him. He cannot run away. He is too exhausted.” When Formosus' bonds were released, he nearly fell, but the stranger caught him with surprisingly strong arms and led him to a bench to sit. He took the cup with water from the trader's servant and held it to Formosus' lips.

“Drink,” he told the Celt in his strangely accented voice.

The water soothed Formosus' parched throat and dry lips.  
“Now tell me your name,” the stranger urged gently.

“Formosus,” the Celt croaked.

“Where are you from?”

“Britannia,” Formosus answered dully.

“You don't need to talk to a lowly slave sir,” the slave trader intervened, “I can tell you all you need to know. He is healthy, only twenty-one years old, he has had one previous owner who treated him well, he is perfectly intact, almost like a virgin, if you want to try for you self...”

“Hold your peace,” the stranger growled at the slave trader, “there is no use in an empty vessel.” He cupped Formosus chin with a gentle hand and turned his face towards him. “You speak Latin?” he asked. Formosus nodded. “Anything else?”

“Greek, Sir,” Formosus answered.

“Good,” the stranger answered, “very good. It is true that you have only had one Master and he treated you gently?” Formosus' eyes filled with tears, but he nodded. “What was your position in his household?”

“I was his concubinus, Sir,” Formosus replied .

“You alone?” the stranger insisted. After Formosus had nodded, he continued. “So you know how to pleasure a man, I assume.”

“I do,” Formosus confirmed.

“Sir is welcome to a demonstration if Sir wishes,” the slave trader cackled. The stranger ignored him.

“Do you feel strong enough to stand up?” the prospective buyer asked Formosus. The Celt struggled to his feet, helped by the other man. “I need to look you over. The price the trader is asking is very high, I must make sure that you are flawless.”

The hands on Formosus' body were gentle and soft. They caressed his skin, stroked and examined him carefully and painlessly.  
“He is bruised all over,” the stranger told the slave trader angrily, “how can you allow such a valuable slave to be treated in this way?” To Formosus he said: “You are very beautiful. I believe you might be just what I have been looking for.”

Formosus sat down on the bench heavily. The stranger moved away with the slave trader, obviously discussing the purchase price.  
“You're lucky,” the slave trader's servant told Formosus, “apparently he is a very rich man, at least he doesn't seem to be bothered by the price they are asking for you. He must be a prince of some kind, perhaps from Persia or Egypt. You will probably be treated well, clothed richly and fed the choicest meals. He is in a hurry as he will be embarking tonight, I overheard him tell the trader as much. His ship sails tomorrow.” Formosus' heart sank. Even though of all the prospective buyers this man seemed to be the least objectionable, the worst thing that Formosus could imagine was crossing the sea and leaving Tibur, where the message from his Master was still waiting for him, far, far behind.

*

Formosus had never felt so sick. Each time the boat lurched – and it was a choppy sea – his stomach heaved. He had already emptied it of all contents and by now he was dry retching. The outline of the place he had called home all of his life had disappeared in the sea mist, and he would have felt alone, save for the strong arm around his shoulder and the hand on his forehead, pushing back his hair every time he leant forward to retch. He decided that home would be wherever the man was who was currently muttering soothing words into his ear that he could not understand, and comforting him.

When he saw the Roman for the first time, striding out of his tent, brow furrowed in anger, whisking him away from the men by the fire, the young Celt thought that he had never seen a man who was so handsome. Instinctively he knew he could trust the Roman officer. He was afraid at first, he didn't want to leave the familiar woods and fields of his home, but the further he rode, sitting in front of the man on his horse, strong arms protectively encircling him, the more it seemed to the boy that he was starting out on a new adventure.  
He was leaving nothing behind. His family were all dead. He had seen Brigo die, his adopted cousin; and he knew that his aunt was dead, the Romans had advertised the fact far and wide. The Iceni had been all but annihilated. He could have fled to the Trinovantes, but what then? He could never have told anyone who he was, as there was bound to be someone who would betray him to the Romans. Even worse, as the Trinovantes and the Iceni often intermixed, there would be people who would have seen him with his aunt and would know who he was.  
He snuggled back against his captor. He was feeling a lot less seasick than before, and the other man made him feel safe. He just hoped that he had interpreted the looks that the Roman sometimes directed at him correctly. The young boy's sexuality was awakening, and the Roman officer was the object of his desire. He hoped that desire was mutual.  
*

Formosus leaned over the railing and retched.

“You would not make a good sailor,” the stranger remarked, pulling the Celt back down to sit and wiping his face with a cool, wet cloth, “the sea is quite calm today.” He gestured to the burly guards who had handled the luggage and who waited like dogs for every snap of the stranger's fingers. They brought a fresh cloth for Formosus' face and some warm, scented liquid in a cup. “Drink this slowly,” the man said. While Formosus sipped the aromatic drink, he looked over at the other man furtively. He had an ageless face, he could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty. His skin was evenly brown, not as dark as the skin of the Nubians or Egyptians that Formosus had seen in Rome, but darker than even the most tanned of the Romans. He hadn't been told how to address the man, and he was unsure how to gauge his behaviour. He didn't dare to ask where they were heading, nor who his new captor was. There was something decidedly strange about the way he was being treated. While Quintus Aelius had been affectionate and attentive towards Formosus, theirs had been an unusual relationship from the start and Formosus had been barely more than a child when they first met. Now Formosus was a man, and this stranger was attending to him as if he were his doctor rather than his new master.

Also, the man was carefully neutral, he seemed uninterested in Formosus' personal attractions, and the first night they had spent together in an inn, guarded by the stranger's servants, had been chastely separate in two beds. The stranger had not even looked over as Formosus undressed. And yet at the auction he had explicitly asked Formosus about his skills in the bedroom.  
The warm liquid had quietened Formosus' stomach. The stranger slid his hand under Formosus' toga and carefully palpated his abdomen.  
“I think you should lie down now,” he said in his perfect, but accented Latin, “if we are lucky you will have no more trouble with sea-sickness on this journey. If you feel ill again you will tell me immediately and I will give you something to make you feel better.” Formosus nodded and let himself be guided into the cabin they shared. The stranger watched dispassionately as Formosus stripped and lay down in the bed. Again the man ran his hands gently over Formosus' body and pressed an ear to his belly, listening. “It is just sea-sickness,” he said, “it will pass. You are healthy and strong. A little too thin, perhaps. Nothing that can't be mended.” The man pulled the covers up over Formosus. “Sleep,” he said. Formosus was confused by the fact that his body seemed to have no effect at all on his new master.

*

“I want to go with you.” His voice broke as he spoke, he was aware that he sounded petulant.

“No.” His aunt turned flashing eyes on him. Her chestnut-coloured hair came down to her waist and swung across her back as she turned to him. She was tall, taller than most men, and her green eyes were fierce. “It is enough that the Romans violated my daughters,” she told him, “I won't have you harmed, too. They do not know about you. If I should fall, you will take my place, do you understand?”

“If you fall, they will kill us all, Stepmother.” Brigo had entered the room unnoticed. He walked over to the boy. “You will do as your aunt says, Elisedd,” he cautioned, patting the boy's head.

“You are hardly much older than I am, Brigo,” he answered angrily.

“I am old enough to be a warrior,” the handsome blond youth answered, “which you are not. Also, you are destined to save your people should we fall.”

“Why me?” the boy protested.

“You know very well why, Elisedd,” his aunt replied. “The Druids foretold it. And look. Look at us.” She held up a shield of polished bronze, so bright that their reflections were easily visible in its smooth surface, bathed in gold. The boy saw himself, tall and lean, his thick, chestnut hair unruly about his shoulders, and standing next to him his Aunt, tall and slender, her long hair the same colour and texture as his, their faces as similar as if they were son and mother. “They will know you by your face,” she said gently, “and they will trust you because you are my kin. They will see that you are my kin.” She swept out of the room. He never saw her again, save in his dreams.

*  
“You cried out.” Formosus felt himself shaken awake. “Do you often have nightmares?” His new owner was leaning over him.

“Sometimes,” Formosus admitted. The man went over to one of the large travelling cases that were stacked in the corner of the cabin and opened it. He brought a small, sealed jar which he opened and held to Formosus' mouth.

“Drink this, it will help you sleep,” he said as he poured a drop into Formosus' mouth. He put the jar on the table by the bed and put a soothing hand on the Celt's brow.

“Sleep,” he whispered. Formosus soon felt his eyelids droop.

“Thank you, Master,” he mumbled. The stranger shook his head.

“I'm not your new Master, slave,” he said, “I am just a servant, instructed to buy, among other things, a new slave for my Master's pleasure. You will meet your owner in a few days. I am his humble assistant, nothing more.” Formosus tried to speak, but he felt consciousness drifting away from him as he sank into a deep and dreamless sleep.


	19. Chapter 19

Titus Cassius shifted in his seat. The Senate hearing was extremely tedious today, and he missed the dry remarks that Quintus Aelius would make from time to time to alleviate the boredom. The seat next to his was painfully empty, the Senate had not yet voted in a replacement as a sign of respect and mourning. The appointment of the next Consul was on the agenda, by rights Quintus Aelius was one of the candidates that would have been under consideration for the position; he was still young but he was accomplished and greatly respected among his peers.  
Titus Cassius would have preferred to have stayed at home that day, he was worried and had other things to do, but one of the topics to be discussed were the unsubstantiated rumours of unrest and impending revolt among a group of escaped slaves and freedmen of Celtic origin. At least Junius was no longer in Rome to Titus Cassius' relief. He had left for Ostia over two weeks ago, and several days prior he had received a note from the slave by messenger that he had gone to Tivoli to stay at Quintus Aelius' villa.  
On the one hand, Titus Cassius was glad. Ostia was still very close to Rome, and if the Senate decided to arrest Celtic slaves and freedmen indiscriminately in fear of another uprising, then the further away Junius was, the better. On the other hand the Senator had no idea what Junius was intending to do in Tibur and how he imagined he would be able to get into the unattended villa. Titus Cassius could only suppose that all this has something to do with Formosus. He did not know, but he had deduced that Formosus had headed to Tibur after leaving Rome. He assumed these had been Quintus Aelius' instructions. He had no wish for Junius to join his compatriot there and endanger himself further, but Junius would do what Junius wanted, and nothing Titus Cassius could say would stop him. He only hoped that Junius would be circumspect enough not to attempt the dangerous journey across country alone.  
Titus Cassius was not a young man. He was not married and had no children. He had indulged in plenty of sex with other men in his younger years, but he had never committed to a relationship. He had no family to speak of; all he had was Junius.  
He first saw the boy when he went to an auction at a well-known trader's for expensive and skilled slaves. Titus Cassius was looking for a kitchen slave; he loved to eat and wanted to buy a baker to complement the two very good cooks he already owned. Instead he saw a skinny little boy, naked as slaves always were when they were on sale, his face stained with tears and his nose running. Although the child's face was angelically beautiful, the last thing on Titus Cassius' mind at that moment was sex. He bought the child without even thinking about it and took him home, wrapped in a blanket. He had his housekeeper bathe and clothe the boy and told her to instruct him in basic Latin as he seemed to speak none, and to train him to help her. His housekeeper was a kindly woman who liked children and had none of her own, so he entrusted the boy to her care and more or less forgot about him. The woman named the child Junius and Titus Cassius became accustomed to seeing the boy performing simple tasks around the house. But the kindly housekeeper married and moved into her own house with her husband, and as a consequence, Junius attached himself to his Master.  
The child had grown into a startlingly pretty youth with soft, wavy hair, full lips and eyes that seemed to look into the innermost soul. Despite his almost angelic appearance, Junius was extremely naughty, always chasing after girls, fighting with other youngsters and getting into trouble. It was about at this time that Titus Cassius' young friend Quintus Aelius returned from the campaign in Britannia with a young Celt about the same age as Junius. Due to the conquest of the British Isles, Celtic slaves had become quite common in Rome, and Junius knew several of them. But when he saw Formosus, he seemed genuinely shocked.  
Formosus was gorgeous. He was very tall already, long-limbed with huge hazel eyes that were fixed on Quintus Aelius. He never seemed to leave the young Roman's side and he was constantly searching for some physical contact with the man he apparently had accepted as his master in all things. The Celt was obviously frightened by the noise and bustle of Rome, also he was quiet and reticent by nature, quite different to his exuberant, cheerful and raucous compatriot Junius. But Junius was uncharacteristically thoughtful in the evening after they had first been introduced to Formosus.  
“You were very quiet tonight,” Titus Cassius addressed his young charge, “I would have thought that you would be overjoyed to have a companion your own age.” Junius frowned. Then he heaved a sigh. Titus Cassius knew that the boy would eventually tell him what was on his mind, they had a very easy relationship, more like between relatives than between master and slave. They would not become lovers until two years later.

“I've seen him before,” Junius pronounced solemnly.

“He has only just arrived,” Titus Cassius replied, “where did you see him?”

“No, not here,” Junius contradicted impatiently, “in Britannia. I'm sure of it.”

“But that would be several years ago, when you were young children,” Titus Cassius said doubtfully, “he would have changed.” Junius shot him an exasperated look.

“He is unusual-looking,” Junius answered, “and I'm not stupid. I know who he is.”

“I thought he belonged to a different tribe.” Titus Cassius was tired. “Now run along to bed, it's late.”

“No, listen.” Junius caught his hand. “Our tribes are neighbours. I accompanied my father to visit their king one day. King Prasutagos. I saw this boy outside, playing with his cousins.”

“I don't see where this is leading us,” Titus Cassius remarked, feeling puzzled. But Junius was not going to be stopped. That is when Titus Cassius found out that his own little slave was King Addedo's son, rightful heir to the title King of the Trinovantes, and that Formosus was none other than Queen Boudicca's nephew and presumably her last surviving relative.

*

Titus Cassius felt himself prodded. Senator Gaius Sidonius was looking down his long nose at him censoriously.

“You should listen to this, Titus Cassius,” he scolded, “seeing as you have a slave from Britannia. It also might have to do with our dear deceased friend's slave, Formosus.” Gaius Sidonius sighed. “The fool,” he said, “why did he run away? I'm sure we could have cleared his name.” Titus Cassius raised his eyebrows.

“Really?” he questioned, “I hardly think a Celt would get a fair trial at the moment. Formosus may have had his reasons to flee.” He directed his attention towards the Senator who was now speaking.

“There has been talk,” the Senator was saying, “of the Celts here in Rome mustering their forces around a leader,” he paused for effect, “that leader is said to be the son of Queen Boudicca, head of the revolt against the Roman Army in Britannia.”

“That is rubbish, Boudicca had no son,” a doughty old veteran of the campaign in Britannia heckled the speaker, “she had two daughters.”

“But there is talk of Boudicca's son among the Celts themselves,” the speaker insisted, “and whether this man is an imposter or not, he is a focus for revolt. This unrest must be nipped in the bud. Remember Spartacus!”

“And what do you propose?” Senator Gaius Sidonius asked.

“Round them up,” the speaker answered loudly, “the freedmen and the slaves. Lock them up and send some of them to the arenas to fight. That should act as a deterrent. When the rumours have died down, we can let the rest go back to their duties. They won't dare to revolt if we act swiftly and forcefully.”

“You will only foster resentment,” Titus Cassius interrupted, “which will lead to more unrest.”

“You are just opposed to the plan because you have a Celtic slave yourself,” the speaker sneered.

“So I have,” Titus Cassius admitted freely, “and you are certainly not locking him up or throwing him to the lions.”

“Nor mine!” One of the other Senators got to his feet in protest.

“Certainly not mine,” the veteran who had spoken before shouted. “I trust him more than I trust any of you back-stabbers.” The Senate erupted in argument. Gaius Sidonius leaned over to Titus Cassius.

“The only good thing about leaving these decisions to the Senate,” he smiled, “is that it takes so long to come to an agreement that in the end, nothing results.” Titus Cassius nodded.

“If Emperor Vespasian were not in Judea, crushing the Jewish revolt,” he agreed, “he might put an end to this bickering. I dare say we won't be reaching an agreement anytime today, or the next.”

*

Junius fingered the chain around his neck. Then he looked over at the man riding next to him.

“So at least we can keep each other company as far as Tibur,” he said. “And after that?” Iason shrugged.

“I had planned to return to Greece,” he answered, “I will never be anything but a slave if I stay in Rome. But to leave here without at least trying to help Formosus irks me. He killed a man to save me.”

“I don't know if what we find in Tibur will help Formosus,” Junius answered doubtfully, “but as it was his wish that I go to Tibur to find whatever his Master left for him, and as there is no way we could possibly follow him by boat, this is all there is left for me to do.”

Junius' hand went up to his neck again. He was wearing the golden chain with the key that Quintus had given Formosus. After the slave hunters had burst through the door, Formosus had fumbled the chain from his neck and pressed it into Junius' hand. “Got to Tibur,” he had called out, before they dragged him away, “please!”.  
Junius frowned. This was all the sculptor's doing, he was sure of it. Shortly before the slave hunters appeared, Marcus had mysteriously disappeared. The sculptor had acted strangely after he had spent the night in the same room as Formosus, presumably the fool had tried his luck with Formosus again and been rebuffed. Marcus' admiration for the tall Celt bordered on the obsessive. Could unrequited love be so vindictive? Had Marcus gone to the slave-hunters and told them where to find Formosus, just because he had been rejected? And worst of all, Junius blamed himself. He should have kept his big mouth shut and not advertised the fact that the only man Formosus would ever love was Quintus Aelius, and that Marcus did not have a chance. Every thing pointed to the fact that, in a fit of pique, Marcus had betrayed Formosus. Junius wished dearly that he could put his hands around the sculptor's neck and squeeze the life out of him. He wouldn't be the first man Junius had killed.  
“What are you thinking about?” The ever curious Iason interrupted Junius' thoughts. They were winding their way along the Anio river, about one and a half hours' ride from Tibur.  
“I am thinking about that dastardly sculptor,” Junius growled, his sweet face contorted, “and how very much I would love to choke him to death.”

“What happened to the man who bought you in Britannia? The Roman officer?” Iason asked suddenly. “You said he died soon after he brought you to Rome.” Junius flashed him a look.

“He did,” Junius answered nonchalantly, “he was mysteriously poisoned. Not at home though, or we slaves would no doubt have been blamed and crucified. Luckily he was out riding when it happened. He was carrying an empty water skin which he must have filled with water from a contaminated spring.” Junius turned to Iason and smiled. “I hear it was a painful, lingering death,” he added smugly.

“I see,” Iason said, raising an eyebrow.

“I'm sure you do,” Junius agreed. “I have heard that hemlock is very poisonous. Even small traces of it.”

Iason looked over at Junius thoughtfully. He had said that he considered the Celt to be a dangerous man; it had been just a hunch, nothing more. Here was his proof. Iason could only imagine what horrors the Roman had subjected his eleven-year-old captive to, presumably his demise was richly deserved.  
*

Formosus didn't mind Tiro's dispassionate and gentle touches. He seemed to be constantly checking the slave's health. Now Formosus knew that the quiet, gentle man who had bought him was not his master, he lost some of his reserve. He asked for his name, but did not comment on the fact that a person who looked nothing like a Greek in Formosus' experience should have a Greek name. He asked where the boat was sailing to, and Tiro told him that they were headed for Alexandria. Formosus had heard of the great city on the coast of the Egyptian province; it was the second largest in the Roman Empire. It was famous for its huge library. Quintus Aelius had been there once and had told Formosus of the scrolls piled high under the roof; all the knowledge of humanity had been collected there, so his master had explained to him. Formosus suspected that he would not be travelling to Alexandria to visit the library.

Formosus' sea-sickness had disappeared, and he slept deeply and without interruption. Tiro tended to his every need. If the constantly watchful eyes of the guards had not been following his every movement, Formosus could have forgotten for a while that he was a slave on his way to his master.  
Formosus could not quite understand Tiro. He seemed acutely aware of Formosus' attractions, but was also strangely unaffected by them. Either he was completely uninterested in men, which seemed strange in a man who had obviously been brought up within the Greek culture, or he had a wife or some other person who he loved dearly and who made Tiro immune to the sexual allure of others. Formosus could understand that; he could think only of Quintus Aelius. All the same, he had been very much aware that the Praetorian guard who had stopped him on his way out of Rome had been a handsome man, and his proximity had not left Formosus cold.  
Tiro spoke little; Formosus even less. He didn't really care about the future, the only thing on his mind was how he could get back to Rome and ultimately to Tibur. At night before he slept he thought of Junius, hopefully on his way to the villa with the key that Formosus had pressed into his hand before they dragged him away. He thought of Iason, wondering whether the Greek had managed to evade capture and was perhaps headed back towards Thebes. And then he thought of Marcus, more with sadness than with anger, despairing of his own judgement for trusting a man so racked with desire. It was the thrice-cursed statue at work; Formosus was not superstitious, but he had hated the idea of the statue from the start, and everything had gone wrong since his master had embarked on that ill-fated project. Now he was dead and Formosus was far away. He would never be able to visit the grave of the man he had loved so dearly.  
*

It was dusk by the time Junius and Iason reached the villa. Junius knew it well, he had visited Quintus Aelius with his master there many times. It was a beautiful house in a wonderfully overgrown garden, the place exuded peace and quiet. Even sombre, taciturn Formosus had seemed almost carefree when he was there, possibly because he had the Senator more or less completely to himself and because they did little else but sleep, eat and make love. Junius had even come across them one day, rolling around in the bushes. He had beaten a hasty retreat and from then on had steered clear of the undergrowth in the garden. He couldn't quite help a small smile lift the corner of his mouth at the thought. He turned the key and entered the house, wondering what secret it held for Formosus. It was dark inside, all the shutters were closed. Junius though it safer to keep them that way. He and Iason lit some of the lamps in the atrium, and carried one each into the house. Every room they looked into seemed undisturbed, there was neither a note nor any sign that there had been something left to find.

“Look here,” Iason called from the sleeping quarters, “strange that this was not cleared up after they were here last.” Junius joined him on the threshold of what was obviously the bedroom where the Senator and presumably Formosus slept. One half of the bed had been slept in and had not been made. The covers were bundled to one side, the pillow squashed together. He went over to the bed to look. He lifted the pillow and shook it lightly.  
“Strange,” he mused, “it must be quite a while ago that they were here last. Yet this bed seems to have been slept in quite recently. No dust has collected on the covers or the pillow.”

“We should check the shutters and the doors,” Iason cautioned, “in case someone managed to get in and sleep here.”

The two men went back outside and walked around the house, testing the locks and shutters on windows and doors. They were all secure and firm.  
“Very strange,” Iason said as they re-entered the house.

“We should eat,” Junius decided, “there's nothing more we can do now, we should wait until morning, then look again. Perhaps we overlooked something in the half-light.” Carrying the provisions they had brought with them, they made their way into the kitchen. Junius, who had been two paces in front of Iason, suddenly jumped back and bumped into Iason.

“What is the matter?” Iason grumbled, then he saw. There was bread on the table, and a knife. The loaf looked dry, but it was not older than a few days. A water skin lay on the table and a beaker still half full with wine. A chair was upturned. Someone had been in the villa recently and had left in a hurry. Someone who very probably had not had to break in to gain entrance.


	20. Chapter 20

“Welcome to Alexandria,” Tiro gestured over the city that lay before them, “the most beautiful city in the whole of the Roman Empire.” Standing on deck, waiting for the boat to be moored, in the sunshine that was hotter and brighter even than in Rome, Alexandria did look beautiful, Formosus had to admit. It was a huge, bustling city, and from his vantage point on deck he could see that it was quite different from Rome. It was a modern city, founded by Alexander the Great, and instead of having grown organically like Rome, it had been carefully planned . Its streets criss-crossed in right angles instead of winding narrowly around corners and steeply down the hills as they did in Rome. Impressive though the view was, Formosus' heart sank and he longed to be back in Rome in his master's domus on the Palatine Hill with its view across the city. “Don't be sad,” Tiro added, correctly gauging Formosus' expression, “you must learn to forget and live on.”As if I have not spent half my life already doing just that, Formosus thought to himself bitterly, but he did not speak.  
The luggage was bundled onto a cart, Tiro giving out orders to the slaves while Formosus stood on deck and watched, a guard on either side of him. They made Formosus nervous; they avoided eye contact and never seemed to speak or smile. Tiro came back for him and gently guided him off the ship and into a closed wagon, followed by the guards. They set off down the street leading away from the harbour. Formosus was unused to travelling inside a cart or wagon, they were only allowed on the narrow streets of Rome at certain times and on certain business to prevent a complete traffic breakdown in the city. The wide, straight roads in Alexandria were far better suited to heavy traffic than those in Rome.  
“The city is divided into three parts,” Tiro explained, “behind us is the Jewish Quarter, and on the outskirts the older part, the Egyptian Quarter. We are headed towards the Greek Quarter, by far the richest part of Alexandria. My Master's palace is there, which shall be your home as it is mine if you please him.” Formosus squirmed uncomfortably and rolled his lips into his mouth, a habit he had when displeased. He had no wish to please a new master and no desire for a new home. Tiro took his face in both hands gently and looked into his eyes with his own velvety-dark ones. “You must learn to hide your feelings better, Formosus,” he said earnestly, “this petulance does not become you. Be thankful that you will be at a place where you will be treated as a valuable possession should be. You are a slave, you would do well not to forget that. Your fate could have been a worse one, and if you are wise you will do all in your power to impress your new master favourably.” Formosus lowered his eyelashes and refused to look at Tiro. He felt a tear run down his cheek. Tiro caught it with the tip of his finger. “You will find life here will be quite comfortable,” he told Formosus in a reassuring tone, “and your duties will be shared and therefore not too arduous.” Before Formosus could ask what Tiro meant by that, they had pulled up and stopped. Looking out, Formosus could see that his destination was indeed a palace, an enormous house in the Greek style, gated and walled and so huge that Formosus thought it could house a small army. His new Master was, if his house was anything to go by, a rich and powerful man. Formosus sighed. The walls looked impregnable. Getting out again looked all but impossible.

Formosus shivered. The house reminded him of Nero's palace, it was ornate and richly decorated after the Grecian fashion, but there was also something slightly unfamiliar about some of the decorations. There were statues of men with curled hair and beards that looked nothing like anything Formosus had ever seen. They were in the Roman province of Egypt, but Formosus was quite familiar with Egyptian artefacts, there were many on sale in Rome and his master had often pointed out the details to him.  
Tiro guided him through a wide, marble corridor, past doors and arches. There was no one to be seen and their footsteps echoed eerily. Through the windows on one side Formosus could see into a huge park, palms waving and ornate ponds glistening in the dappled sunlight. Tiro stopped in front of a large double door and rapped it with his knuckles. The guards stopped several paces behind them. Tiro pushed Formosus inside and followed him. The room on the other side of the door resembled nothing so much as a bath house. There was a sunken bath steaming in one corner, a bench for massage in the other. The room was ornately tiled in blue and white, intricately patterned and beautiful. A man was rushing across the room towards them. He was short and slim, with dark hair that hung down to his shoulders in waves. At first glance Formosus thought he was a woman, but a second look confirmed that the person currently smiling at them and rubbing his hands together gleefully was a man.  
“Well, well, well,” the man said, speaking slightly accented Greek in a high-pitched voice, “what have you brought me? Did you buy him in Rome?” He hugged Tiro briefly. “I shall have fun with this one, he is gorgeous, a real man.” He reached out a hand and stroked carefully over Formosus' hair. “Better than all those effeminate little boys around here.” Formosus frowned. Considering that the speaker seemed to be of ambiguous sexuality himself, Formosus found his remark rather strange.

“I bought him in Ostia,” Tiro explained patiently, “on the day before I left. I thought I should come back empty-handed, but then I saw him. He is not Master's usual type, but he is unusually good-looking so I have a hunch he will accept him all the same. We shall see.”

“I'm sure he will,” the man muttered, walking around Formosus, “let me see.” He reached out a dusky hand to unclasp Formosus' tunica, causing him to draw back suspiciously. Tiro put an arm around his shoulders.

“You have nothing to fear,” he said reassuringly to Formosus, “Narses won't hurt you.”

“Of course I won't,” the strange man said, “I am here to make you feel comfortable, not to hurt you.” He stepped closer to Formosus again. “Do you speak Greek?”

“He speaks perfectly. I have to go to Master now, you will look after him?” Tiro nodded at Formosus.

“Of course,” Narses nodded, “tell me your name and come with me. You must feel exhausted after the long journey.”

Formosus let the stranger lead him by the arm towards the bench, where he was pushed down to sit. He watched Tiro leave the room, and looked at the other man in confusion. He was dark-skinned and his dark eyes were huge. He smiled at Formosus.  
“Well? What am I to call you?”

“Formosus,” the Celt answered as Narses reached out his arm and gently unclasped his clothing.

“Formosus,” he repeated, “beautiful in Latin if my memory serves me correctly. The perfect name for you of course. Well, then I shall call you Kallias, the beautiful one. It sounds so much better in Greek.” While he spoke he deftly pulled the clothing away. “Yes you are very beautiful,” he said, looking Formosus up and down, then he pulled him to his feet and dragged down his underwear. “Very beautiful indeed.” Taking his hand, he led Formosus to the sunken bath and gestured him to get in.

Formosus sighed and submitted to the inevitable. The water was warm and scented with rose petals that floated on the surface. He relaxed, and laid his head back. Soon he felt water being poured over his hair and strong, skilful fingers on his scalp, care fully washing.  
“Such a nice colour,” Narses hummed, “like the maroni the Romans like to eat.” He continued to wash Formosus' hair. “I think we shall leave it longer,” Narses remarked. Formosus' hair had grown to his shoulders, it was straight, shaggy and thick. “Perhaps I will curl it.” Formosus pulled away and looked at Narses resentfully. “Don't worry,” the man chattered away happily, “leave it to me. You just relax.” He rinsed Formosus' hair until the water ran clear, and then proceeded to use a wash cloth to scrub his chest. The cloth travelled over his arms and chest, pinching his nipples briefly, then down over his stomach, lightly brushing his member. Formosus immediately felt its interest stirring, the last time he had come at been at the slave trader's. The hand with the wash cloth kept delving down his stomach towards his abdomen. Formosus clenched his teeth. “Just relax, Kallias,” Narses chided him petulantly.

“I don't want this,” Formosus gritted.

“You'll thank me for it later,” Narses retorted, humming while his hand with the washcloth grew bolder and bolder. Formosus tried to squirm away and succeeded in splashing a large quantity of water out of the bath and onto Narses. “Now look what you have done,” he scolded. He walked over to the bench and returned with a large towel. “Out,” he ordered. Formosus scowled but obeyed and let Narses envelope him in the soft, white fabric and rub him dry. Then the towel was whipped away. It was warm in the room and being naked was not uncomfortable, save for Narses' continued scrutiny of his body. “Lie down,” Narses ordered, pointing to the bench, “on your back.”

“What if I don't?” Formosus growled rebelliously.

“Then I call the guards to make you,” Narses sighed, “they are just on the other side of the door. Would you like that?” Grudgingly, Formosus shook his head and lay back on the bench as instructed.

Narses oiled his hands and immediately began to rub the oil into Formosus, massaging gently. He had been to the baths with Quintus Aurelius often enough to be quite familiar with massage, but when Narses' hand pushed between his legs to manipulate his testicles, he jumped with surprise and tried to push the intruder away.  
“Stop making a fuss,” Narses chided in his high voice, “you're enjoying this and you know it. Let it happen. You'll thank me for it later. Master almost never lets his pornai come.”

“I am not a whore!” Formosus protested.

“Well, you are now,” Narses continued, his hand closing around Formosus' penis, “Master calls the slaves he keeps for his pleasure whores.” Formosus started.

“You mean there are more than just me?” Narses stopped and looked at Formosus with an amused expression on his face.

“By Zeus almighty,” he smiled, “of course there are. Master likes choice.” Formosus furrowed his brow.

“How many?” he wanted to know.

“You are the seventh, Kallias,” Narses answered unconcernedly, “now lie back. Be glad,” he added, “it makes your task less arduous.”

“My name isn't Kallias,” Formosus mumbled, unable to ask more questions about the other slaves due to the very distracting effect Narses' hand on his genitals was having. Narses obviously knew exactly what to do to afford Formosus maximum pleasure. The Celt was having difficulty lying still and was squirming and moaning loudly.  
“You look so beautiful when you are in the throes of passion,” Narses said hoarsely, his mouth close to Formosus' ear as he reached behind him and put a small towel on Formosus' stomach, “just let it happen, let go of your fears for a moment.” With a rush of noise in his ears and the firm, warm hand on his member skilfully bringing him to orgasm, Formosus did forget for a moment where he was as he shuddered his release, which spurted all over the towel on his stomach. Narses carefully washed him clean. “Now on your stomach.”

Formosus rolled over and felt his eyes falling shut as Narses expertly massaged his shoulders, back and thighs.  
“There,“ Narses said eventually, “I hope you feel rested now after your long journey. Tiro will be here directly to take you to meet Master. A few words of advice. Keep your eyes lowered and don't look at him. Don't speak until he speaks to you. Behave. Usually you should drop to your knees, but not now. He will want to see you. You were Tiro's choice and if you turn out to have been a mistake, he will suffer for it. Tiro is a good man and my friend. Understand?” Formosus frowned but he nodded.

“I understand,” he growled.

“No sulking,” Narses cautioned, “that might have worked with your last Master, here it will only get you a beating.” Narses stroked Formosus' unruly hair. “Where are you from? We seldom see hair and eyes the colour of yours.”

“Britannia,” Formosus responded sullenly.

“That is a long way away,” Narses replied wistfully, “I have never met a Celt before. You will be the only one in Master's collection.” Formosus snorted.

“Collection,” he repeated angrily, “I don't want to be in anyone's collection.”

“What you want is hardly relevant,” Narses answered, “you're a slave.”

“So are you,” Formosus snapped. Narses looked at him, then he threw back his head and laughed.

“Poor child, pais,” he said, “you have a lot to learn. Sit. I need to shave you.” Eyeing the shaving blade with distrust, Formosus sat still while Narses shaved his face and neck. Then he reached between Formosus legs and threaded his fingers through the thick, pubic hair. “Now this,” he ordered. “Keep still.” Formosus instantly clenched his legs together. “Do you want to be held down by the guards?” Narses asked with annoyance. Formosus relaxed his legs and grudgingly allowed Narses to trim the hair around his genitals. He was angry, and it was all he could do to stay calm. He felt humiliated like never before in his life, even when he had been at the slave trader's house. He was an object, to be used and to fulfil a function, nothing more. He was not even allowed to keep the name his Master had given him. Either Narses called him Kallias, or by the insulting Greek epithet pais, meaning child, an offensive name to call an adult slave. Narses slapped Formosus' thigh sharply. “Stand up,” he ordered, “and bend over.” Formosus complied grudgingly, an unholy rage in his breast. As he had anticipated, he felt the other man's oily digit enter him. Despite his rough tone, Narses was gentle and careful. “I won't prepare you yet,” he explained, “your Master will only want to look you over and perhaps test your tightness. You have been carefully used, it seems.” Formosus only grunted and looked up when the door opened. He was relieved to see Tiro enter the room. He did not like Narses, he decided, but Tiro's proximity was comforting. Narses withdrew his finger, and when Formosus straightened, he slapped the Celt's buttock stingingly.

“He is disrespectful and sullen,” Narses addressed Tiro, “how could you stand to be cooped up with him for days on the ship?”

“He behaved perfectly with me,” Tiro responded, “he was quiet, a little sad; shy even.”

“I called him Kallias, a far nicer name than Formosus, but the ingrate objected.” Narses grumbled.

Come Formosus,” Tiro smiled as he turned to the slave, “your Master will see you now.”

“He thinks I am a slave,” Narses grumbled after them, “the fool!”

“He will learn,” Tiro answered quietly, “he will learn.”

Tiro and Formosus walked down the corridor in silence. The guards, who were placed in front of the doors they passed, kept their eyes averted as they passed. It was eerily quiet. Formosus was not usually ashamed of being naked, but in the ornately decorated palace, passing the guards and walking by Tiro's side, being the only person without clothing made him feel vaguely uncomfortable.  
It was warm in the palace; the thick walls could not quite stop the heat of the midday Egyptian sun from spreading into the quiet interior of the building. Formosus could feel beads of sweat forming on his brow, the oil on his skin wasn't helping, either. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.  
“You will get used to the heat,” came Tiro's soothing voice, “and there are cool baths and fans for your comfort. You will see that life here is very pleasant if you please your master, and your duties will not be too exacting. You will share them with others. You can read, or talk with the others, and there is a beautiful enclosed garden to walk in. Master will probably require you to use the gymnasium here in the palace so that you keep your beautiful shape, but I am sure you enjoy using your body.”

“I am afraid,” Formosus admitted. He had hardly comprehended the words that had been spoken to him.

“Keep your eyes lowered,” Tiro echoed the words that Narses had already impressed on him, “and kneel only if he tells you to. Do what he commands. Your Master is short-tempered and does not suffer fools gladly. But he is not a bad man. He is bitter and twisted, but inside he has a good soul.” Formosus looked over at Tiro. There was affection in the man's usually emotionless voice. “He cannot help it,” Tiro added sadly.

Tiro's words did nothing to allay Formosus' fears. They stopped in front of huge, gilt double doors that reminded him of Nero's palace uncomfortably. The guards standing on either side of them were imposing, easily as tall as Formosus himself and twice as broad, carrying spears that were planted on the floor before them. They parted wordlessly when they saw Tiro, which reinforced Formosus' suspicion that his companion was a man of some importance in the palace. Tiro knocked and entered, guiding Formosus with a hand on his biceps. Formosus focused his eyes on his feet to avoid looking up involuntarily. They walked to the middle of what appeared to be a large room, Formosus saw glimpses of ornate furniture and the polished marble floor with intricate inlay beneath his bare feet. There was the sound of someone rising and walking towards them. A deep, strong voice spoke in a strange language, and Tiro answered in the same tongue. It was not Egyptian, a language that Formosus had heard spoken in Rome before. It was strange, sharp to the ear, but more like Egyptian than Greek or Latin. After they had exchanged a few words, they reverted to Greek but used words in between that Formosus had never heard of.  
“So, Tirdat,” the strong voice continued, “this is the bandag you promised me. He is not a boy, but fully grown. He is old.”

“He is not old, Shapur my Pati,” Tiro replied patiently, “he is barely in his twenties.”

“He is surely not a virgin,” the other man grumbled, “you could have brought me a virgin.”

“I saw none that equalled this one in beauty,” Tiro answered calmly.

“He is a man, strong and athletic,” the man continued to complain.

“You have enough silly little boys,” Tiro sighed, “and you are man enough to handle an adult.” Formosus felt the man walk around him slowly and come to stop in front of him. He kept looking down and saw dusky, sandalled feet. Judging by the size of the feet, the man before him was tall. Then a hand was stretched out and fingers trailed over his arm.

“He has beautifully smooth skin,” the deep voice said, “and so pale. Golden.”

“He is a Celt, my Pati,” Tiro explained, “from Britannia.”

“A Celt,” the voice echoed, “I have heard that some of them have yellow hair. Why did you not bring me one with yellow hair?”

“There was none as handsome as this one,” Tiro replied, “and his hair is lovely. Thick and bright, almost golden-brown.” The hand left his arm and stroked over his hair.

“Perhaps,” the voice mused. Then the hand was drawn away. “He is big,” the man said, “why buy one so well-endowed when he will not be using his organ?”

“It will please Pati to dominate such a virile young man,” Tiro answered wearily, “imagine having one such as he is under your control. It will be the same thrill as riding a stallion.”

“You may be right,” the answer came, “after all you are my magun handarzbed and I dare say you know best. He is tight?”

“He had one master before you, and was well treated.” A cool finger penetrated him slowly.

“I take it he is tame then,” the voice said languidly.

“He was very docile with me,” there was a hint of amusement in Tiro's voice, “but Narses complained of his behaviour.”

“Narses always complains,” the voice said. “Have him prepared. Wait. I want to see his eyes. What colour are they? Are they blue?”

No, Pati, they are not,” Tiro's voice sounded nervous. A hand gripped his chin.

“What is his name?” the man asked.

“Formosus,” Tiro answered.

“Ugly, Latin word. It means beautiful, does it not?”

“Narses calls him Kallias,” Tiro said.

“Kallias. Perfect.” Formosus felt the grip on his chin tighten. “Look at me, Kallias. Raise your eyes.” Formosus looked up slowly with a feeling of trepidation. Tiro's nervousness was palpable.

“Pati, I should talk to him...” he began.

“Look at me,” the voice said firmly. “Look at your despotes.” Formosus' eyes rested on the face just inches away from his own. He blinked, unable to quite register what he saw. When he did, a wave of pity hit him together with a sharp, intense memory of what someone had once said, when Formosus was living another life, a few weeks ago that seemed a lifetime now.

The man in front of Formosus was broad and well built, just a hint of softness around his stomach betrayed a life of idleness and indolence. The man's hair was straight and black, the expression on his face unfathomable. He might be in his late thirties, Formosus assumed. But what was impossible to overlook, what moved Formosus suddenly to pity was a huge scar across the man's face, reaching from the top of his forehead diagonally across his face to his chin. One of his eyes was closed, the eyelid sunken over an empty eye-socket. The sight might have shocked Formosus save for the fact that the only thing he could think of was Marcus' description of his dead master's slashed face.


	21. Chapter 21

Iason was lying in the bed next to Junius and listening to him snore gently. The noise made him smile, fastidious Junius was the last person Iason had expected would snore. Iason didn't need much sleep and had already checked the doors and windows several times already that night. They had decided to share a bed for safety after much grumbling and complaining on Junius' part; he did not like to share a bed with another man unless it were Titus Cassius, and he left Iason in no doubt of this fact. Junius was a kind, loyal and brave man, this Iason already knew; but it pleased him to keep up a front to hide his true nature.  
Iason didn't mind sharing a bed with Junius, he smelled fresh and sweet, and his hair, when it brushed Iason, was soft and silky. Iason had never felt physically attracted to anyone before in his life, neither man nor woman, and he didn't feel attracted to Junius. But the other man was so pleasing to be near that Iason for once in his life enjoyed the human closeness.  
“Can't you sleep, Greek?” Junius said sleepily.  
“I never sleep for long,” Iason answered, “I'm sorry, did I wake you?” Junius turned to look at Iason.

“No, you didn't. I woke up of my own accord. I can't help thinking that there is something we have overlooked. Quintus Aelius would hardly have sent Formosus out here on a wild goose chase with nothing to show for it.” Junius sighed.

“Whatever it was, I dare say the burglar made off with it,” Iason countered.

“How did he get in, that's what I want to know,” Junius mused, “I suppose there was a second key in Quintus Aelius' house. Suppose someone came here specifically to look for whatever Quintus Aelius had left for Formosus.”

“Improbable,” Iason answered, “no one else knew about Quintus Aelius' letter.”

“No,” Junius agreed, “but what about Quintus Aelius' wife? From what I hear she was beside herself with anger because her husband left everything except for the town house to Formosus. Perhaps she sent someone to the villa to pick up some valuables.”

“Possible, I suppose, but there are no signs that the place was ransacked.” Iason sat up. “Why would anyone who came here sleep in Quintus Aelius' bed, of all the places to choose from?”

“The intruder probably didn't know that it was his bed,” Junius reasoned.

“The Senator's clothes are in the closet, his sandals on the floor by the bed, there are signs everywhere that this bedroom of all the empty ones in the villa is usually occupied by the owner of the house.” Iason rubbed his face.

“Then I don't know,” Junius shrugged, “tell me.”

“Looking at this logically,” Iason began, “there are only two people who had an interest in coming here. One of them is Formosus.”

“Well it wasn't him,” Junius said impatiently, “we know that. Who is the other one?” Iason looked at him steadily. “Oh by all the gods,” Junius growled, “surely you don't believe that the dead can walk the earth?”

“No I don't,” Iason laughed, “it is a mystery. Get some more sleep. We will search this place from top to bottom tomorrow and then hope your Master arrives here soon. Perhaps he will have an idea how we can find out where Formosus has been taken and how we can retrieve him.”

“I could not bear it if something happened to him,” Junius said in a rare moment of raw emotion, and then turned on his side away from Iason to hide his tears.

*

“I cannot believe he showed his face,” Narses said in a hushed voice.

“I think for a moment he forgot,” Tiro answered sadly.

“Did it frighten you?” Narses looked at Formosus curiously.

“Why would it frighten me?” Formosus scoffed.

“He is not one of those silly boys who mince around the palace and squeal at every mouse,” Tiro said with a hint of scorn in his voice that Formosus had not heard there before, “he kept perfectly calm.” Tiro stretched out his hand and clumsily patted his arm, it was the first time Tiro had ever demonstrated any kind of affection towards Formosus.

“Good, that is very good,” Narses muttered, “it seems you chose well. And now?”

“Now you are to prepare him.” He turned to Formosus. Narses will prepare you, then I will give you your instructions and bring you to one of Master's bedrooms. I will be back presently.”

“No!” Formosus called after him, emboldened by his brief gesture, “stay here, please.” Tiro wrinkled his brow.

“But why? This is Narses' job.” Narses giggled hysterically.

“I think he is afraid of me,” he sniggered, “I think he is afraid that I might want to satisfy my own urges.” The ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Tiro's lips.

“Is this true?” Tiro put an arm around Formosus' shoulders. He looked pointedly from the broad-shouldered, tall Celt to the thin, short man in front of them. Formosus blushed.

“Believe me, my admiration of your many charms is purely professional,” Narses smirked.

“I should have explained, but it is imperative that you serve your Master first. Then we will talk. Narses will not, he cannot hurt you. If you are safe with anyone, then you are safe with Narses. But I will wait outside the door if it will help.” Formosus shrugged and sighed.

“Do I have a choice?” he grumbled.

“No, you do not.” Tiro turned and left them.

Formosus felt as if he were in a bad dream. He did not want to share physical relations with anyone. It felt as if he were being unfaithful to Quintus Aelius, although he knew that Quintus was dead. His mind knew he was dead, but his heart did not.  
Narses arranged him so that he was bent over, supporting himself with his hands on the bench. Formosus could feel the other man's skilful fingers stretching and manipulating him painlessly.  
Ever so often Narses stroked his prostate, the feeling jolting pleasurably though his body.

“The sensation is enjoyable, is it not?” Narses said conversationally, “one day you must tell me what it is like.”

“Tell you?” Formosus asked, mystified, “what do you mean?” Narses didn't answer, instead he jumped to another subject.

“Who is the man? The man you are sighing after? Or is it a woman?” It took a moment for the meaning of the question to register with Formosus' brain.

“He's dead,” Formosus answered.

“I see,” Narses continued to finger Formosus, “Tragic. Do you want to come? You might be glad if you do. Master most likely won't let you; he is sometimes cruel like that.” He cupped Formosus' testicles and weighed them in one hand. “You are quite ready to come again although it is hardly half an hour since I last milked you.” Formosus squirmed. Narses was rubbing his prostate relentlessly and the sensation was getting to Formosus. He hated the detached way that the other man spoke of his bodily functions as if he were hardly a human being. There was something inhuman about Narses himself, as if he really did not know how Formosus felt. Narses rubbed the head of Formosus' member and he shuddered out his relief, jolts going through his whole body. At the same time he felt something being shoved into his anus.

“What are you doing?” he protested, still breathless from orgasm.

“It is just to keep you open a little,” Narses soothed, “nothing to worry about. There. I will clean you off and then Tiro can take over.”

“What is that? Take it out!” Formosus tried to clench but there was something smooth and long in the way. It didn't hurt, but it was uncomfortable.

“It is a special toy, designed to stimulate if you use it properly, but it can also be used to keep the anus open. It is shaped like this.” With these words Narses lifted Formosus' spent member with the wash cloth. When Formosus frowned at him, Narses continued with an innocent look: “Ladies like to use it, too.”

Formosus knew by now that it was of no use to argue with the strange little man. He reprimanded him several times for calling him Kallias, which Narses ignored, and was grateful when Narses opened the door and called Tiro back in.  
“Is he prepared,” Tiro asked, a hint of nervousness on his face. Narses pushed Formosus at him.  
“He's perfect,” Narses answered, “now it's up to you, Kallias,” he turned to Formosus.

“To do what?” Formosus snapped.

“To please our master,” Tiro responded quietly, “in the knowledge that if you do, you can look forward to a long and happy life.”

“And so can we!” squeaked Narses happily, slapping him gently on the thigh and quickly retrieving the plug from between Formosus' buttocks.

Formosus followed Tiro down the corridor, this time turning off in another direction.  
“You will be good, won't you?” Tiro asked nervously.

“I do not have a choice, you have made me amply aware of that fact,” Formosus answered sullenly. It was not so much the fact that he didn't want to have sex with his new master. It didn't really matter that much to him, he had learned to turn his feelings off at will. He knew that it was his duty to please his master and there was no way of opting out. He did not have anything against his new master on the grounds of physical appearance; the fact that he had suffered a some harm for a reason as yet undisclosed was more a matter of pity to Formosus than otherwise. When his new master had realised that he had revealed his scarred face to the new slave, he had turned away hurriedly and mumbled to Tiro to bring Formosus to the main bedroom. He had seemed flustered, and that had rather endeared him to Formosus. No, what really hurt Formosus was the fact that he did not ever want to sleep with anyone ever again. Despite knowing that Quintus Aelius was dead, it would seem like a betrayal. He did not want to sully his memories of sharing a bed with the Senator by sleeping with another man, any man.

It was not a matter of his choice, Formosus had learned that. Quintus Aelius had been an affectionate and indulgent master, but he had never left Formosus in any doubt that he was his slave and bound to obey. It was not in Formosus' nature to rebel openly. So he followed Tiro down the corridor, trying to reconcile himself with the fact that this now was his life, and the better he dealt with it the better he would fare.  
He tried not to think of Nero and in truth, he could not reconcile the battered countenance he had seen with the smug, cruel face of the emperor. But the palace, the sumptuous, ostentatious decorations, the unsmiling guards at each door, they all reminded Formosus of the late ruler and his Golden House.  
The room they entered after travelling the maze of corridors was full of marble, gilt and dark red. It was a bedroom, dominated by a huge bed in one corner and a mural depicting acts of male penetration in every imaginable position. Formosus curled his lip. Schooled by Quintus Aelius in matters of artistic taste, he considered crude depictions of intimate acts outside the bath house walls vulgar.  
“This is the main bedroom,” Tiro spoke at last, “get under the covers and lie on your side, facing the window.” Formosus did as he was bid, hoping that the new master's sexual tastes were not as close to Nero's as his taste for ostentatious housing arrangements was. He sighed. “Now wait,” Tiro said, and Formosus could hear his footsteps quietly padding as he left the room and closed the door behind him.  
Formosus heard a second door open, this door was behind him and he could not see who had entered the room. He felt someone's weight on the bed and a body pushed close to his from behind. Used as he was to the hard, muscular body of Quintus Aelius, this one felt soft and a little flabby. Formosus felt a hand smooth over his shoulder and pull the blanket off his body, then a kiss was placed on his shoulder. That was almost his undoing as it reminded him of the Senator's gentle caresses and he felt his eyes fill with tears of longing and regret. He was entered swiftly and painlessly while he stared out of the window, his eyes following the movement of the gently swaying fronds of the palms outside in the garden.  
*

Marcus hardly knew how he had got back to Rome. Staggering through the streets of Ostia, reeling with the shock of what he had done, he managed to hitch a ride on the back of a cart full of Egyptian corn destined for the capital. When he eventually returned home, he had to face a worried and irate father who ranted and remonstrated with him, and who had been searching for him for days. Marcus lied that he had been to visit a friend, that several days of hard drinking had stopped him from returning home but that he was sober now and would behave in future. By way of a punishment and also to keep his son occupied, Lucius Priscus passed several urgent assignments on to Marcus, so that he had been chipping at marble for the last three days, taking a break only to eat and sleep. What Lucius did not know was that Marcus had also been attending to his pet project as soon as his father's back was turned or he was in the tavern in the evening for a mug of cervisa. As soon as Marcus heard the gate swing shut behind his father, he retired to the farthest corner of the workshop and pulled the sheet off his own private little project. The statue of Formosus was taking shape, the face was already recognisable, the long neck smooth and curved and the slim legs with their strong thighs almost perfect. Marcus took up the hammer and chisel to work on the muscle definition on the stomach. At least he still had the statue, and it would be a perfect likeness.

Working diligently under the light of several oil lamps, Marcus didn't notice that it had become so late that it was almost dark outside. He smoothed his hand over the stomach muscles he was working on and wished that, like Pygmalion, he could bring the statue to life. He couldn't resist letting his hand slide down lower, where he had already started on the genitals, making them as realistic as he could. He felt along the outline of the stone penis with his fingers, closed his eyes and sighed, one hand travelling between his own legs to toy with his erection. In his mind's eye he could see Formosus' naked body, he looked into his face and saw the moist, raspberry-red lips parted in invitation. His Formosus didn't roll his eyes at him or sigh when he said something foolish, and his Formosus would stay in the barn with Marcus forever. Marcus threw his head back and groaned.  
The groan stuck in his throat almost instantly, because he felt a knife press against his delicate Adam's apple, a body push up behind him and an arm snake firmly around him from behind.  
“No please,” he spluttered, “I am only a sculptor, I have no money!”

“You craven little coward,” a voice hissed, “you treacherous, covetous wretch, this is all your fault! And by Jupiter, I will see you pay for this!”

“I did nothing, nothing at all! Please let me go!” Marcus knew immediately that his assailant was referring to Formosus, and panic flooded him. “It is not what you think, I swear! If I could undo what happened, I would.” The voice laughed nastily.

“Very well, then help me undo the wrong you have caused, we will pack some of your things and then we will travel to Ostia. You will tell me exactly what you did and where you saw Formosus last. Then you will take me to the slave trader who sold him. We will find out which ship he sailed on and you and I will board one for the same destination. We will not stop until we have Formosus back, alive and safe, do you understand?” Marcus was almost crying. He had no idea who his attacker was, the voice was vaguely familiar but he could not put a name to it. It wasn't the obvious candidate, the hateful Junius who had dashed all his hopes with one throwaway remark.

“But I can't,” he protested, “my father...”

“Your father should be ashamed of the fact that he raised his son to be a treacherous, spineless and worthless wretch, coveting what was not and never will be his, and instead of taking rejection with the dignity that becomes a man, indulging in petty and cruel vindictiveness. You come, or you die.”

“I am all those things and more,” Marcus whined,” but I swear I did not betray him to the slave trader on purpose, I swear...”

“Save your oaths,” the voice said sternly, “we will get your things and leave before your father returns. I would slit your throat but I am in need of your assistance.”

“You shall have it,” Marcus hurried to agree, and when he felt the knife drop from his throat he turned to look at the man who had attacked him.

“You look as if you have seen a ghost,” the man sneered, “into the house to pack a saddle bag and then we leave immediately for Ostia.”


	22. Chapter 22

“Well?” Narses demanded, “you haven't said a word since Tiro brought you back.” Formosus shifted in the warm bath and leaned back.  
“There's nothing to say,” he answered.

“What was it like? Did he speak to you?” Narses urged, putting a hand on Formosus' shoulder.

“Leave me alone,” Formosus growled sullenly, pushing the hand away. Narses drew back and got up. He gave Formosus a puzzled look, then he scuttled to the door and looked out. Apparently he saw Tiro outside, because he called his name and went into the corridor briefly. Formosus could hear mumbled words through the half-open door. He looked down at his knees poking through the water. The new master hadn't spoken, he hadn't hurt him and it had been over in a few minutes. Formosus felt nothing, just empty and numb.

Narses returned, smiling.  
“Tiro said that Master is very pleased. Well done!” He knelt back down next to the bath and patted Formosus' shoulder. Formosus pushed the hand away angrily.

“I didn't do anything,” he grunted.

“Sometimes, not doing anything is the wisest course to take, and the hardest,” Narses nodded sagely. Formosus snorted and stood up.

“I'm tired, I need to sleep,” he said tonelessly.

“You can sleep soon,” Narses soothed, “ a word of warning. Don't trust the other pornai, especially not Proteus.”

“I'm not a whore,” Formosus answered automatically, “and who is Proteus?”

“He is the Master's favourite,” Narses hissed, “and he loves intrigue.”

“Well I don't,” Formosus snatched the towel from Narses and began drying himself off, “all I want is to sleep.”

Formosus was naked, save for an ornate collar of gold and leather around his neck. He didn't particularly mind, although he was more aware of his nakedness than usual. He followed Tiro down one of the corridors to a door, which Tiro opened. He gestured Formosus to enter. He was in a large room with a bed, a wide window looking out into the garden, a cupboard and a chair and table. It was ornately furnished in a mixture of the more austere Greek style and something more elaborate, a theme that was recurrent through the whole palace. The room was cool, but not cold, and Formosus longed to lie down on the fresh linen of the bed. He was exhausted.  
“This is your room,” Tiro said, “you may have anything within reason in it to make you feel comfortable.” Formosus grunted.

“I'm just tired,” he said.

“You may sleep all you like presently,” Tiro answered, “after you have met the other slaves.” Formosus scowled and sighed, but he followed Tiro back out of the room, frowning at the guard standing next to the door.

“Will he always be there?” Formosus nodded at the broad, muscular, dark-haired man staring in front of him.

“There are no locked doors in the palace,” Tiro explained, “just guarded ones. The guards are well trained. They won't hurt you.”

“I'm not worried about them hurting me,” Formosus said sneeringly. He was tired and had no wish to meet the other slaves.

“I understand that you are tired and overwhelmed,” Tiro said patiently, “you may sleep soon.” He put out his hand and touched Formosus' shoulder briefly in that odd gesture of affection he had displayed earlier. Against his will, Formosus was soothed by it.

They came again to a double door, guarded by two men. Their faces were neutral and expressionless, but Formosus saw one of the men's eyes dart towards him so briefly it was barely perceptible, and interest flicker in their light-brown depths. He registered the information, thinking it might be useful later.  
They entered the door and the cloyingly sweet smell of perfume immediately wafted out. Inside, fetchingly draped on cushions, couches and blankets, were six naked young men whose eyes immediately swivelled towards the door and fixed on Formosus. There was a hush in the room as the youths stared at the new arrival. Then two of them put their heads together and began to whisper, a third sat up straight and began to study Formosus from head to toe, a fourth smiled and blushed, the fifth licked his lips and fixed his eyes on Formosus' crotch and the sixth got up indolently and came slinking towards them, smiling coyly and fluttering his long eyelashes.  
“So you're the new one,” he said in an arrogant tone of voice that immediately jarred with Formosus, “by Aphrodite, you're old. You won't be here for long.” He laughed shortly. “I am Proteus, Master's favourite.” Formosus eyed the young man without answering. He could see that his quiet scrutiny made the other man nervous, but then Proteus was hardly a man. He would be about seventeen, Formosus guessed, slender with smooth, light-brown skin and thick brown hair, his face pretty as a girl's. He was attractive, Formosus thought, but not as pretty as Junius and quite obnoxious to boot. The youth turned to Tiro. “Can't he speak, old man, or is he weak-headed?” He prodded Formosus in the chest. “Why don't you answer?”

“Because your speech didn't merit an answer,” Formosus sneered, annoyed that the youth had insulted Tiro, “I don't like to waste my breath.” He saw a smile flicker very briefly in the corner of Tiro's mouth and heard the sharp intake of breath of the youths behind them, and a quickly stifled snigger.

“Master values my company above that of all others,” Proteus boasted, “you would do well to be more respectful towards me.”

“He's welcome to it,” Formosus growled dismissively. Before Proteus could say anything more, Tiro moved on, guiding Formosus by the elbow to a boy who was sitting up on one of the couches. He was the one who had smiled and blushed when he saw Formosus. He looked very young, certainly no older than fourteen Formosus guessed.

“I am India,” the youth said in a low voice, fixing huge black eyes on Formosus, “named after the country I come from. What is your name?”

“Master wants you to call him Kallias,” Tiro interrupted before Formosus could say his name.

“The beautiful one, ridiculous!” Proteus had come up behind them.

“You're name is equally ridiculous if you want to call it that,” Tiro retorted, “Proteus, the first one, and yet your vanity enjoys the name.”

“Shut up, old man,” Proteus snapped. India smiled nervously and a little sadly at Formosus. They moved on to two young men who were sitting very close together and seemed to be holding hands. They were both curly-haired, attractive boys of sixteen or seventeen with wide smiles.

“These are Castor and Pollux,” Tiro explained, “they are brothers, from Greece.”

“I'm the older,” the one called Castor grinned, “by a year. Although people often think we are twins.”

“Welcome,” Pollux said, “you're very handsome Kallias. We shall enjoy having you here.” He and his brother giggled at that and put their heads together again.

“They are inseparable and unbearable,” Tiro sighed, moving over to the young man who had stared at Formosus' crotch so shamelessly. Even now, he could hardly tear his eyes away.

“I hope I get to perform with you,” the boy smiled wickedly. He was the tallest of those present, his body still thin and adolescent although he might have been the oldest of them, apart from Formosus himself.

“Perform?” Formosus asked.

“Master sometimes likes to see us together, he likes to watch. Sometimes we enact scenes.” He smiled at Formosus, then his eyes strayed back to Formosus lower abdomen. “My name is Priamos, the ransomed one. My father sold me to pay off his debts.”

“I'm sorry,” Formosus trailed off, at a loss.

“I'm not,” Priamos grinned, “we were poor. Here I live a life of luxury and I don't have to work.” He stretched out and sighed contentedly. Tiro tugged Formosus' arm and took him over to the last boy who hadn't taken his eyes off him for a second. The boy was looking at him as if he were one of the Greek Gods who had stepped down from Olympus and now stood before him.

“This is Bandak,” Tiro introduced the youth who might have been eighteen or thereabouts, “he is a Parthian. Master brought Bandak with him when we moved from Susa to Alexandria.”

“So you too are Parthian?” Formosus asked. He knew little about the great Parthian Empire save that the Emperor Nero had fought several wars there.

“As is your Master, and Narses too,” Tiro agreed.

“Your hair and your eyes are so beautiful,” Bandak interrupted. His voice was soft and gentle, and made Formosus look at him more closely. There was something endearing about the youth.

“Thank you,” Formosus said gravely, “your name is Bandak?” The young man nodded.

“It means servant in Parthian,” he answered sadly, “I do not have a grand name like the others.”

“I am sure you don't need a grand name,” Formosus said kindly, “names are only words.” He felt his heart tug. “Names can be changed but we stay the same inside.” He thought of the name his parents had given him, changed by the man he loved and changed again now. It didn't matter.

“You are kind,” the boy said, and Formosus smiled at the irony. Elisedd, the kind one, the name he had been given at birth.

“Perhaps you deserve kindness,” Formosus said. Tiro was staring at him as if puzzled. Then he seemed to regain control over his faculties.

“We should go,” he told Formosus, taking his arm, “you must sleep. Come.”

Tiro was quiet on the way back to Formosus' room, and Formosus was glad. He was exhausted. He immediately lay down on the bed and turned on to his side, but Tiro sat down on the bed next to him. He felt Tiro's soothing hands travel over his body.  
“Do you feel well?” Tiro asked solicitously, “you are just exhausted, not sick? You are very pale.”

“I am just tired, Tiro,” Formosus mumbled, “let me sleep.”

“About Narses,” Tiro began.

“I don't care about Narses,” Formosus answered sleepily, “I don't like Narses and I don't want to hear about Narses.”

“You find him odd,” Tiro persevered.

“I find him obnoxious,” Formosus contradicted, then he sighed and buried his head in the pillow. “Tell me later, Tiro,” he sighed, and then he was asleep.

*

Formosus was sleepy. Quintus Aelius had spent all evening with his friends eating and talking about politics that the fifteen-year-old understood nothing about. He was bored. His master had tried several times to no avail to send the teenager to bed, but Formosus hated sleeping alone and hated not being with his Master. Despite Quintus Aelius' efforts to at least get him to sit on the couch, Formosus was sitting on the floor, one arm around his Master's legs and his cheek pressed against his knee. His eyes were shutting slowly. There was only one more man left in the room, Gaius Sidonius, one of Quintus' closest friends who was also a veteran of the campaign in Britannia.

“Go to bed, Formosus,” Quintus Aelius urged yet again, “I shall be there in a minute.” Formosus just turned down the corners of his mouth sullenly and the Roman sighed.

“He is such a stubborn boy,” he complained.

“You spoil him,” Gaius Sidonius answered with a smile, “it's your own fault.” The two men talked for a few minutes, the hum of their voices soothing Formosus until he drifted into a doze. He heard his master laugh briefly, then Formosus felt himself being lifted and laid onto the couch.

“If he gets any taller, I won't be able to lift him at all,” Quintus Aelius said.

“He's certainly very tall,” Gaius Sidonius agreed, “and very pretty. He'll be an extremely handsome man. But then he has her looks. She was a beautiful woman, Quintus, did you ever see her in battle?” Quintus Aelius hissed warningly through his teeth.

“Not here, and not now,” he growled.

“It might be dangerous if anyone found out that one of her kin has survived, the command in Britannia took great pains to kill her entire family,” Gaius warned, “to prevent one of them from being the focus point for a future uprising.”

“They almost wiped out the Iceni entirely,” Quintus Aelius responded, “which was barbaric. There was no need to kill innocent people.”

“The Iceni were just as cruel in battle,” Gaius Sidonius contradicted, “do I have to remind you of the carnage at Londinium?”

“War is cruel,” Quintus Aelius snapped, “and he is mine. The only people who know who he is are you, Titus Cassius and his slave Junius. They won't tell and neither will you.”

“Of course not,”the other Roman agreed, “does the boy know that you realise who he is?”

“I doubt it.” Half asleep, Formosus only registered his Master's hand, stroking his hair. “We never speak of his past, it pains him too much. Sometimes I think he has forgotten who he is.”

Perhaps it is better that way,” Gaius Sidonius answered, but all Formosus could think about was his Master's hand in his hair, steadily stroking.

*

And that is how he awoke, with a hand in his hair, gently stroking.

“Master?” he slurred, still half asleep. He blinked and reality came back to him in an rush, unwelcome and cold. “Tiro?” he queried.

“You have slept for hours, Formosus, it is nearly evening,” Tiro said withdrawing his hand, “you need to eat.”

Formosus blinked, unable to sit up for a moment because the dream was still so heavy in his consciousness. Was it a memory that he had forgotten, suddenly come to light in an unguarded moment of sleep or was it just a chimera from the world of dreams? Tiro's hand was wandering over his empty stomach.  
“You are too thin,” he chided, “you need to eat. Sit up.” Still dizzy from the dream about his Master and the hand in his hair, Formosus struggled to sit. The smell of food filled his nostrils and he realised that he really was very hungry. Tiro pushed something past his lips into his mouth, an olive by the taste of it. He continued to feed Formosus with morsels of food while talking to him soothingly.

“Master might call for you again this evening,” he told Formosus, “I shall be taking you to Narses to prepare you in case he does.” Formosus rolled his eyes. “There is something you should know about Narses,” Tiro continued, “it might make it easier for you to tolerate him.”

“I don't care,” Formosus gritted sullenly, his mouth full of fruit.

“His position is very well respected among the household, he looks after Master's slaves but Master also consults with him on matters of importance.” Tiro shoved a fig past Formosus' lips.

“I dare say,” Formosus mumbled uninterestedly.

“He is a eunuch,” Tiro said, “castrated as a child. His parents were poor, and castrating their son was a method of ensuring a successful career for their offspring. Eunuchs are trusted in our culture, uninhibited as they are by sexual urges and familial ties.” Formosus turned up his nose in distaste. He had heard of eunuchs, indeed he knew some were famous in the eastern provinces, but he had never particularly thought about it. “So you see, Master can trust him with you as he has no sexual feelings. And you need not fear him, either.” Formosus frowned. He supposed what Tiro said must be true, it would explain the feminine look of the man and his high voice. Then he thought of the bliss he experienced when he slept with Quintus Aelius, and he couldn't help pitying Narses.

“That is cruel,” Formosus said.

“Narses does not miss what he has never had,” Tiro answered coolly, “and he is happy to be in such a respected position in the household of a rich and powerful man. Otherwise he would still be living in poverty, or perhaps already starved to death. With the money he sends to his parents he is able to keep them from starving, too. He is contented with his lot.”

“I would not support parents who did that to me,” Formosus argued angrily.

“You don't understand.” Tiro pushed more food past his lips. “It is an acceptable part of our culture. Now we will see Narses to get you prepared, and after that I will bring you to the other slaves to wait until your master calls for you.”


	23. Chapter 23

Aulus Tarquinius patted his horse's mane idly. It was a slow night, most of the people of Rome had gone to bed early. The day before they had celebrated Volturnalia, one of the many Roman festivals. The Volturnalia were dedicated to Volturnus, god of the Tiber, the river that ran through Rome, and were celebrated with copious amounts of food and wine. Which was why, Aulus Tarquinius thought bitterly, most of the other Romans were sleeping happily in their beds now, while he was keeping watch on the Porta Esquilina, one of the main gates in the Servian Wall.  
Aulus didn't usually mind being on duty at the Porta Esquilina. It was sometimes used as a place for men to meet in private if they were looking for a random encounter with one of their own sex. As Aulus himself was occasionally that way inclined, also very good-looking and one of the highly respected Praetorian Guards to boot, he sometimes indulged in some fun himself, if any of the men were attractive enough, which they usually weren't. But tonight there was no one at all to help alleviate the boredom. Three Vigiles were leaning against the wall of a four-storey building some distance away, chatting among themselves. Aulus knew them, none of them were attractive enough to warrant a second glance and they were so stupid that they weren't even worth talking to. Aulus was twenty-eight and an officer in the Guard, he should be married with a family, or so his father continuously told him. But he liked being free to do as he pleased, he had no wish to be inhibited by a family that he would have to go back to every day and no wish to commit to anybody.  
Although a Roman by birth, Aulus Tarquinius was an Etruscan by origin, and his light hair and blue eyes were greatly admired, as was his tall, strong build. He had the family name of a line of Etruscan kings, and although there was no way of tracing a direct lineage to those illustrious namesakes, Aulus' father insisted that there was royal blood in his family. Aulus was suitably haughty, but he was also a noble and honourable man who had been sickened by Nero's excesses when on duty in the palace during that emperor's rule. He was relieved when the sober and frugal Vespasian was proclaimed emperor, although he was hardly ever in Rome but mainly campaigning in Judea. Aulus Tarquinius had been present when Vespasian had been a guest at one of Nero's performances and had unfortunately fallen asleep during the rendition of a particularly tedious recital by the Emperor. He had been banned from Rome from a time after that, but now Nero was dead and Vespasian was the ruler. Fortunes could change very fast, Aulus thought, looking up at the sound of a horse approaching and wondering if there was some company on its way.  
Aulus straightened when the rider came in sight. He looked little more than a boy, and Aulus liked his men tall and masculine. He half intended to let the young man pass and ignore him, but he had seen him at the gate before and knew that he would at least be interested. After all, his looks said nothing about his ability to give head, and Aulus could always close his eyes. Not like the time he came across the tall Celtic slave, the one he had saved in Nero's palace. He hadn't been able to look away from the sight of him on his knees, his lips wrapped around Aulus' large organ. Aulus shivered at the thought.  
“Hey, you!” he called over to the rider, “are you interested in helping me to pass the time?” The boy jumped when he heard Aulus' voice, but he stopped his horse, then turned and smiled.

“What kind of pastime do you have in mind?” the young man asked.

Aulus slipped from his horse and walked towards the other man.

“Follow me, and I'll show you,” he said, leading his horse into the shadows near the wall.

When the boy got of his horse, Aulus could see that he was not quite as young as he had thought but presumably well into his twenties. He was short and slim, but the muscles of his arms and shoulders were well developed, as if he used them for work frequently. The boy didn't look like a builder or physical worker though. All in all, quite acceptable, he thought as the young man dropped to his knees and extracted the Guard's already half hard member from his underwear.  
As Aulus had seen the boy around before, he knew that he was experienced, and he was not disappointed. It wasn't the best blow job he had ever had, but it was a lot better than anything he had expected to receive that night. He moaned and half closed his eyes. Out of the corner of one of them he thought he spotted a movement and heard the corresponding slow beat of hooves on the road, but he really couldn't care less. If someone wanted to leave Rome in the middle of the night secretly he was welcome to. He certainly wasn't going to interrupt a perfectly good blow-job to stop the stranger and ask him his business. Aulus groaned and came down the young man's throat.  
*

Formosus walked over to the windows. He could feel the eyes of the six other young men fixed on him. He had just been released from Narses ministrations to prepare him, and Tiro had brought him to wait with the other slaves to see if their company was required by their master that evening. Dusk was falling outside, and Formosus wished he could feel the breeze that the palms were swaying to on his face. He hated being cooped up inside all day.

“We are allowed outside into the garden,” a voice next to him said. It was Bandak, the Parthian with the gentle voice who had stared at Formosus and admired his hair and eyes.  
“I wish I could go outside now,” Formosus sighed in response.

“We have to wait for our Master's summons,” Bandak explained, “although I imagine the rest of us are waiting in vain. It is you he will want to see again.”

“A new toy is always more interesting than the old ones,” Formosus growled dismissively.

“It is rumoured that Master is very pleased with you, that you might become the new favourite. Proteus is very angry. Be careful of him, he is deceitful and unkind.” Bandak had moved closer and was almost whispering.

“I have no wish to be anyone's favourite,” Formosus retorted, “and I would avoid Proteus anyway because he is uncouth and ill-mannered.”

“I am just warning you because I like you,” Bandak answered in a hurt voice. Formosus turned to him and forced a smile.

“I am glad you like me,” he said gently, “I could use a friend. But I am not interested in intrigue or gossip. If you want to keep me company let us not speak of Proteus and his sensibilities, they do not interest me.”

Formosus was very much aware of Proteus' eyes on him, filled with cold anger, and in a way he sympathised. The boy knew nothing else, his only aim in life was pleasing his master and his only gratification was being considered better than the other boys. Again Formosus thanked the Goddess Fortuna for letting his path cross that of Quintus Aelius, at least for a while, who gave him the gift of education and knowledge so that he could see beyond the petty concerns that enveloped the life of those like Proteus. In his way, Formosus thought, Quintus Aelius had already set him free, long before he granted him manumission in his will.  
So Bandak told him instead about the ancient city of Susa, far to the east, sacked, destroyed and rebuilt many times over and now one of the great cities of Parthia and the place from where the King of Kings ruled over the Empire. Bandak had been born there to parents who lived in poverty, and was sold into slavery as a child. He had served first as a kitchen slave, then as he became older and his beauty became more apparent, his Master, who Fomosus learned was a Parthian prince, the son of one of the Parthian satraps, or provincial kings, noticed him and favoured him with admission to the privileged group of slaves that their Master called pornai, the Greek term for whores. There was no mention of why their Master had left Susa or why his face was so disfigured, so Formosus did not ask. He let Bandak talk as it distracted him from the inevitable: The moment when the door was opened and Tiro stood there, motioning Formosus to follow him.  
Tiro didn't speak as he led Formosus through the corridors, and that heightened his sense of apprehension. The room he led Formosus to was a different one to that in which he had met his master before, it was starkly furnished and the bed was very large. To his surprise, Narses was waiting for them inside the room. He smiled.  
“Master has ordered us to arrange something for him,” Narses explained, “there is nothing for you to look so worried about.” Formosus still didn't trust Narses one bit. Eunuch or not, Formosus did not like the short, slender man and loathed his hands on his body. Tiro made his little helpless gesture of affection, stroking Formosus' arm.

“Just obey your master,” he said, “and all will be well. Please get onto the bed on all fours, your face towards the wall.” Formosus did as he was ordered, he had seen two particularly burly guards outside the door and had no wish to be forced into compliance. Better to succumb to the inevitable. He got onto the bed, and before he could even react he found himself shackled hand and foot, and unable to move. Tiro and Narses had worked so fast that he had not even had time to protest. He pulled at one of the cuffs around his wrists. They were made of tough leather but lined with soft fur and did not hurt. They connected his wrists and ankles to the sides of the bed with chains, the slight strain they put on his legs forced him to keep them apart.

“Why are you doing this?” he complained, feeling panicked. A vision of the bedroom in Nero's palace passed before his eyes. He could feel himself beginning to breathe faster.

“You have nothing to fear,” Tiro told him soothingly, “nothing at all. Did your old master never tie you?”

“Never.” Formosus felt himself start to shake. He saw a look pass between Tiro and Narses. Tiro picked up a small bottle that was on a table near the bed and poured a few drops of transparent liquid into a beaker. He brought it to Formosus' lips.

“Drink this, Formosus,” he soothed, “it will help you.”

“What is it?” Formosus drew back in fear.

“It will make you feel calmer,” Tiro explained, “you need not be afraid. Have I ever done anything to hurt you? You can trust me. I do not want you to be afraid or in pain, do you understand?”

For a few minutes, Formosus felt nothing. His body was still quivering despite Tiro's soothing touches and calming voice. Then the trembling stopped and the fear was replaced by a feeling of quiet and contentment. Formosus almost felt as if he were floating.  
“Do you feel better?” Tiro asked.

“Yes, better,” Formosus said and it seemed to him that his voice were slurred, he felt as if he had been drinking wine. He felt Narses fingers inside him, stretching him and coating him with oil. It didn't matter, nothing seemed to matter. He was blissfully contented and relaxed. When Narses stroked his prostate, he moaned happily. He had a short moment of panic when he felt Tiro put a dark piece of cloth in front of his eyes and blindfold him, but that passed quickly, and soon even not being able to see didn't matter any more.

“I will be back presently,” he heard Tiro's voice, “you have nothing to worry about.”

“You spoil him,” Narses said with a laugh, then the door was opened and closed and Formosus waited.

*

“I trust that was not too much of a hardship for you.” the voice was hard and sardonic, Marcus could not see the other man's face in the dark, but he could see his eyes glinting. It was true, though, Marcus had seen the Praetorian Guard many times before at the gate and had always hoped to catch the man's attention. This was the first time that the Guard had approached him. It had enabled Marcus to distract the Guard and let his companion slip out of the gate unchallenged and unnoticed. It would not do for him to show his face.

I did not betray Formosus purposely,” Marcus protested yet again. The other man laughed mirthlessly.

“I saw you look at him,” he said coldly, “you wanted him for yourself. I saw the statue hidden in the back of your workroom, the one you are secretly finishing for your own amusement. He was right, it is a despicable lump of stone, an idiotic project. I know Formosus was stupid enough to kiss you, then you wanted more. When he rejected you, you took your revenge. You are a loathsome creature.” Marcus bowed his head. They turned their horses southwards in the direction of Ostia, Marcus vowing to himself that he would do anything he could to prove his companion wrong.

*

Formosus didn't have to wait long before he heard another door open and close and steps approach, him. He didn't care, he was still caught up in a blissful reverie, and the strange hand on his skin did not worry him at all.

“So smooth,” he heard his master's voice say, and felt hands run over his back and buttocks, over his thighs and under his stomach to squeeze his genitals. Something was pushed into his entrance, judging by the feeling it was the wooden penis that Narses had used earlier. The thing was inserted and retracted several times, each time it stroked over his prostate making him moan and causing his penis to stiffen and rise. His master was breathing hard and fast now, and he felt the bed dip as he got up behind him.

“Down,” the voice ordered, a hand pushing between his shoulder-blades until his shoulders touched the bed, supporting the upper half of his body. The other man entered him hard and fast, thanks to Narses' preparation and the insertion of the wooden toy it was almost painless. But Formosus was still floating on a cloud of contented indifference, brought about by the draught that Tiro had given him and probably wouldn't had felt anything even if it the pain had been intense.

Formosus new master pumped into him hard and fast, pushing Formosus forward until his head was nearly hitting the wall and his legs were pulled backwards by the chains. He was glad that he was so relaxed, otherwise it would have been very hard not to come and he had been warned about coming without permission. There was a last, achingly hard thrust and he felt his master come inside him and heard him groan out his release.  
Relief flooded Formosus' body. It was over, the man was finished. He would leave, Tiro would come and collect him and he could go back to the cool sheets of his bed. But that didn't happen. His master pulled out, then he felt his ankles being released.  
“Turn onto your back,” he was commanded. His arms were still bound, but the chains were long enough to allow him to turn while the chains crossed over as he turned onto his back. Blindfolded as he was, he felt disoriented and still light-headed from the drug. His ankles were shackled again and the heavy breathing resumed. He felt hands on his thighs, pushing them apart and the wooden toy was reinserted into his anus. His testicles were rolled and squeezed, it would have been painful if the drug hadn't numbed his senses so effectively. The foreskin of his penis was rolled back and the sensitive head rubbed. Then the toy was pulled out of him and pushed back, rubbing over his prostate. He groaned and felt a drop of liquid form on the tip of his member. He bucked, sure that he would not be able to hold back much longer and wondering what the punishment for coming would be.

The toy was removed and he felt a cushion being shoved under his lower back. Then he was entered again, and his master set a gruelling pace, pushing in and out of Formosus roughly until his head was knocking back against the wall again. The drug took away the pain and fear, and Formosus almost enjoyed the sensation, the pressure on his prostate was far greater from that angle and there was a hand on his member squeezing and stroking. There was no way he could hold back from coming, he felt a tingling feeling building in his toes, travelling up his legs and converging in his genitals, then there was one more rough shove inside him and a hard pull on his member while a voice gasped: “Come, I want to see it, I want to see you come.” With a wail of relief Formosus felt his semen spurt all over his stomach while his mouth tried to form words and failed, and his master came again inside him.  
It took some time for Formosus to catch his breath. He was still dizzy and muddled from the draught he had been given, and his brain was struggling to catch up with what had happened. He was no longer sure whether he had really been told to come or whether he had imagined the words and was now going to be punished. His master was still inside him, his member softening quickly. He felt him pull out, get off the bed and then he heard steps leave and the door open and close. He was alone on in the room, light-headed and confused.


	24. Chapter 24

Formosus awoke with a dry mouth and a slight headache. He tried to remember where he was and how he got there. Memory came back slowly and he realised that he was in the bedroom Tiro had told him was now his own. Curtains were fluttering in the breeze, a window was open and sunlight was flooding into the room. There was a touch on his arm and turning towards it, Formosus looked straight at Tiro.  
“How did I get here?” Formosus muttered, as the events of the night before came back to him slowly.

“I had one of the guards carry you here,” Tiro answered, “how do you feel?” Formosus shifted.

“A little sore,” he said, “otherwise I feel fine. Did I faint?”

“No, you didn't faint. You fell asleep.” Tiro pulled down the covers and gently felt Formosus' stomach. “No pain?” he inquired.

“No,” Formosus pushed his hand away, “how could I fall asleep?”

“The draught I gave you made you drowsy, it is a perfectly normal reaction. Turn onto your stomach.” Tiro gently urged Formosus to turn over.

“What did you give me?” Formosus asked suspiciously.

“A tincture made out of Hul Gil, the joy plant,” Tiro explained, parting Formosus' buttocks carefully, “Narses put some soothing oils on here, are you in any discomfort?”

“Only a little sore,” Formosus answered impatiently, “the plant is well named. I felt no pain. I felt happy. It must be some kind of manna from the gods.”

“ I will take you to see Narses,” Tiro said while Formosus rolled his eyes, “and yes, Hul Gil can alleviate pain and fear, but it is not without its dangers.”

“Dangers?” Formosus looked up at Tiro.

“I have seen men crave this drug so much they forgot everything else around them,” Tiro said, “the more you take it the more you need it. In the end, it makes you sick. Take too much of it and it stops your breath and kills you. It should be administered only occasionally and only by those who understand its properties.”

“Are you a doctor?” Formosus demanded.

“Among other things,” Tiro nodded, “I am a doctor.”

Narses was in a good mood, he was humming to himself and when Formosus entered, he looked up and smiled.  
“You are a sulky, moody child,” he said insultingly, “but obviously good in bed. I wouldn't know, but Master is pleased with you. Very pleased.”

“Again,” Formosus grumbled, “I did nothing.”

“Again,” Narses smiled, “it was the best thing to do, or not to do.”

“I would have struggled but for Tiro's draught.” Formosus followed Narses' gesture and stepped into the bath.

“I trust it made the experience more pleasurable for you.” Narses began to scrub Formosus' back. Formosus shrugged.

“It took away the fear. I have never encountered anything like it. It is better than wine.” Formosus was still fascinated by the effects of the drug he had taken, despite the slight headache at the base of his skull.

“It is freely available, even in Rome,” Narses explained while he washed Formosus, “it is mostly smoked. You must have heard of it. Opium. It is expensive and can make a man crave it so badly that he would rather die than not have it. It is best left to a doctor to administer.”

“I have heard of opium,” Formosus nodded. He had also seen opium smokers, but Quintus Aelius had spoken of them with scorn, so he had not given them another thought at the time. Now he understood why they smoked and seemed so oblivious to their surroundings. Narses washed Formosus' hair and gestured him to get out of the bath to be dried.

“I have very little time today,” Narses said, rubbing him down, “I have to prepare all of you for tonight. Master is entertaining guests, and you and the other pornai are to be present. The girls will also be there.

“Girls?” Formosus asked, momentarily forgetting to rebuke Narses for calling him a whore.

“Master has girls as well, not just boys,” Narses continued, “you will see them this evening. There. Now you will make sure that you stay clean and I will see you later on to apply the finishing touches.”

“What do you mean?” Formosus asked.

“You will all be in costumes, for the guests' amusement,” Narses told him hurriedly, “I have something very special for you in mind.”

“What do we have to do?” Formosus insisted.

“Nothing. Just stand around and look handsome. Now go, I have work to do.” Narses shoved Formosus out of the door where he almost bumped into Proteus, waiting with Tiro on the other side. The boy gave him a black look and pushed him aside while he entered. Formosus shrugged and followed Tiro back down the corridor.

“Can I go outside?” he asked Tiro abruptly.

Tiro turned to look at him.

“I will let you into the garden,” he agreed, “but I cannot keep you company. Today is a busy day. Master has important guests and there is much to be prepared."

“Narses told me,” Formosus said, “I just want to feel the sun on my skin.”

“You!” Tiro gestured to one of the guards in the corridor. By a coincidence it was the guard with the light brown eyes who had registered interest when he first saw Formosus. “Take him outside for as long as he wishes, and stay with him.” The guard nodded and drew level with Formosus. “Be careful, the sun is stronger here than in Rome and your skin is pale. Stay in the shade or you will burn.” Tiro patted his arm and turned away, back down the corridor.

*

Junius and Iason were in the kitchen when they heard the clattering of hooves, and then a pounding at the door. They looked at one another wide-eyed.

“Hide,” Junius hissed, “hurry, into one of the bedrooms and under the bed, quick!” Iason hastened to obey while Junius went slowly towards the door. The knocking resumed. When Junius was satisfied that Iason was well hidden, he called through the door: “Who is there? What is your business?”

“Junius, is that you?” a voice called, “it's me, Italus, let me in!” Junius hurried to open the door. Panting and dishevelled, one of Titus Cassius' slaves appeared at the door, a simple lad from the Italian countryside, but good-hearted.

“Is anything wrong?” Junius asked, then he saw the sweat-covered horse in the courtyard. “We should give your horse some water,” he added, going outside and taking the reins of the horse and leading it towards the stable, “you rode him hard.”

“Master told me to make haste,” Italus said, “he was afraid you might return to Rome when you heard what has happened.”

“What has happened?” Junius asked while he rubbed the horse down, fed and watered it, “I have heard nothing.”

“Good,” Italus said, “just stay here until you hear from Master. I will spend the night here and return tomorrow.”

“There is not much to eat here,” Junius said, “but there is wine in the cellar and some grain, so we will make do. But tell me, what is happening in Rome and why am I not to return?” They walked back to the house and went into the kitchen, where Junius busied himself pouring out some water for the youth to drink.

“Water! Thank you, I am thirsty.” Italus took the cup with water from Junius' outstretched hand.

“Iason!” Junius called, “it's all right, it is safe. I have a friend here who is hiding,” he explained to Italus, “I had no idea it was you at the door.”

Italus shrugged. “You are always up to something, Junius,” he grinned, nodding a greeting to Iason as he appeared in the door, “I think Master misses your antics.”

“I miss him too,” Junius replied darkly, “now tell me, what is happening in Rome? I have been expecting Master to join us here.”

“It is a good thing you are here,” Italus began, sitting down heavily, “because despite the fact that the Senate spoke out against taking measures against the Celts in Rome, the rabble, the vulgus, have been rounding up Celts and locking them up, or worse. Some have been slaughtered publicly, to teach the others a lesson, so they claim. You know there have been rumours of an uprising of Celtic slaves.”

“The rumours are completely unfounded,” Junius growled, thumping the table with his fist, “why aren't these murderous fools being stopped?”

“The Praetorian Guard are doing their best, but the situation is getting out of hand. Thank Jupiter Emperor Vespasian is on his way back from Judea, he has been camping near Corfinium and will doubtless put an end to the mob violence when he returns to Rome.” Italus took a deep breath. “It was very difficult to get out of Rome, what with Master under house arrest.” Junius nearly dropped the amphora he was holding.

“House arrest? What do you mean?”

“Oh,” wailed Italus, “he cautioned me not to tell you! It is nothing, nothing at all.”

“What?” Junius shouted, thrusting the amphora into Iason's hands and grabbing Italus' shoulder, “why is Master under house arrest?”

“For his own safety, they say it is for his own safety,” Italus tried to calm Junius down, “because he spoke out against the violence against the Celts, not just in the Senate, but in public! I don't know what he expected to gain from it. There was a group of people gathering in the Forum, and he stepped forward and implored them to keep calm and told them that there was no threat from the Celtic slaves. He told them that it was despicable to attack the weak and defenceless, that Roman virtue forbade it. The Praetorian Guard had to escort him home, but the rabble followed and threatened to kill him if he left the house.”

“I am going to Rome straight away,” Junius gritted, “I knew there was something wrong, I could feel it all the time we were here.”

“You can't go to Rome! Master expressly forbade it!” Italus cried.

“It would be very dangerous for you to go to Rome if public sentiment is running so high against your countrymen,” Iason warned, “there will be people who know who you are and can point you out, and you are obviously not a Roman. You should do as your Master ordered and stay here. The Emperor is already on his way to Rome, the whole thing will be over in a few days. They will not dare to harm a senator, a respected man such as your Master.”

“They locked him up, they threatened him,” Junius raged, continuing as if Iason had not spoken, “I cannot bear to think of it. My place is by his side. I will enter Rome secretly at night. I am going alone and I am going now. Iason, you stay here, and wait for my return. Italus, you can return to Rome tomorrow when your horse is rested.”

“You can't go,” Italus pleaded, almost crying.

“Junius, by all the gods, this is suicide and will do no earthly good,” Iason added, “be sensible.” He put an arm around the other man's shoulders.

“I don't care.” Junius shrugged Iason off, “and don't you dare follow me.” He slammed the door and strode off in the direction of the stables.

*

“You will look beautiful, like one of the gods,” Narses smirked while his hands travelled over Formosus' body.

“I will look like a fool,” Formosus contradicted. Narses had oiled his body and was now proceeding to distribute gold dust over his oily skin. The fine golden particles stuck to his skin, making him glitter and shine in the light of the lamps.

“Some in your hair,” Narses sang, tugging Fomosus' head down and sprinkling the gold dust in his thick, brown hair. Formosus groaned. He hadn't felt so ridiculous since he had been forced to model for the cursed statue that had started all the trouble. “Now, as we have guests we will have to be a little more modest than usual,” Narses gloated, producing a narrow strip of golden fabric which he proceeded to arrange around Fomosus' hips, “there. Perfect. One of my best efforts.”

Formosus looked down at himself. The fabric barely covered his genitals and buttocks. His skin glistened, and the last thing he wanted to do was to present himself to a room full of guests. But as usual, he had no choice. He felt humiliated and tired.  
“There you are, Kallias the beautiful, now entertain the guests. Tiro will tell you what to do and I will join the guests later, and keep an eye on you all. I still have a few costumes to finish. Now run along.” Narses waved his dismissal, and Formosus slunk to the door.

“I look stupid,” he grumbled to Tiro as they walked along the corridor.

“Did you have a nice afternoon outside?” Tiro asked, ignoring his remark.

“I need to move, I need to run,” Formosus complained.

“We have a gymnasium, I will take you there tomorrow,” Tiro said patiently.

“Who are these guests, and what must I do?” Formosus asked irritably.

“It was Narses' idea to dress you all as gods and goddesses, you are to stand there decoratively like statues, and occasionally serve the guests fruit and wine,” Tiro explained with an air of long-suffering, “they are important people, business men, politicians, who our master has dealings with.

“Statues,” Formosus growled under his breath.

“Some of the guests will want to touch you or pet you, you may be required to sit with one of them. Nothing more. I will be there to see that everything runs smoothly, and Narses will also come later.”

“I shall count the minutes,” Formosus said sarcastically. Tiro raised an eyebrow but did not respond. Meanwhile Formosus was wondering how his master would be able to entertain guests if he was so loath to showing his face.

Unnufer lay back on the couch and sipped his wine. His host, the reclusive Prince Shapur, had Greek tastes as was fashionable, but Unnufer didn't mind. A rich, Egyptian merchant, Unnufer enjoyed anything and everything expensive and fine, and Prince Shapur knew how to entertain his guests. The room, which was more of a hall, was full of rich food and wines, dancing girls entertained the guests while Prince Shapur's personal slaves were arranged around the room costumed as gods and goddesses, their skimpy clothing leaving nothing to the imagination. Unnufer licked his lips. The moment he had entered the room Unnufer had noticed one of the slaves standing decoratively next to a table with fruit. The man was unusually tall, he was long-limbed and lean; he had the body of a runner. The slave's skin glittered with gold-dust, the narrow skirt that was draped around his hips was tantalisingly short. The other male slaves in the room were mere boys compared to the golden-skinned slave. Unnufer got up from the couch and slowly made his way over to where the slave was standing.  
The slave looked up when Unnufer approached. Even his eyes were a light golden-brown, flecked with green. There was a look of disdain and resentment in their depths that sent a thrill of excitement through Unnufer. He enjoyed a little resistance, it made domination that much more appealing. There was something untamed about the man before him, something that excited him nearly as much as the slave's smooth skin, the soft curves of his muscles and the promising bulge beneath the strip of material barely covering his lower abdomen.  
“Turn,” Unnufer ordered abruptly, gesturing with his finger in case the slave did not understand Greek, and was satisfied when he saw a flash of anger in the slave's eyes. The man did turn though until he was facing away from the Egyptian. With one hand, Unnufer held the man's hips while the other one lifted the skirt up. The slave's buttocks were small and round, pure muscle. Unnufer ran his hand over them and squeezed them. He turned the man back round to face him and caught his chin, holding the slave's face still. He was extremely handsome, with large, gentle eyes, a strong, straight nose and a beautiful curved mouth the colour of raspberries.

Unnufer himself was not a young man anymore and he was running to fat, a sign of the good life he led. His taste in young men was undiminished though, and he prided himself on his prowess in the bedroom. Unnufer enjoyed the chase, he liked it when his bed partners fought and feared him. He looked over the slave's smooth body, imagining how good the welt of a whiplash would look on the pale golden skin. He took the slave by the wrist and led him to the couch where he had been reclining, urging him to sit on his lap. The man hesitated and looked around, but neither Prince Shapur nor his ubiquitous servant Tirdat, who called himself Tiro in Greek affectation, were anywhere to be seen. The Egyptian pulled the slave to sit on his lap, the firm buttocks pressed against Unnufer's erection, while he held the man in place with an arm around his waist, the other hand straying under the skirt to feel the squirming slave's genitals. One way or another, Unnufer thought, he would make the slave his own that evening.


	25. Chapter 25

Marcus was reminded of travelling with Formosus. Like the Celt, his current companion was taciturn, sullen, dismissive of everything Marcus had to say, and extremely handsome. Questions were answered with a series of grunts just as Formosus was wont to do. In fact, the two of them could not have been more alike in nature if they had been brothers, which Marcus fervently hoped they weren't.  
After doubling back when leaving the Servian Gate towards the South, they were now riding to Ostia in the black of night with only the moon to light their way. Marcus still had the taste of the guard on his tongue and half an erection under his toga that he would have liked to dispose of, but he was fairly certain that his companion was even less likely to relieve him of that burden than Formosus would have been. In fact, the man was Formosus in worse.  
Marcus was beginning to rue the day that he had clapped eyes on the Celt. Of course it was mainly his own fault, that much was true. But it was all so unfair. Nobody ever listened to what he had to say, and his current travelling companion didn't believe anything he uttered. He had certainly had enough of adventures, much as he wished to help Formosus. But what could he do, fool that he was?  
“What are we going to do in Ostia?” Marcus tried again.

“What?” the other man answered, obviously lost in thought, “in Ostia? Use your mind, what do you think? Finding out where Formosus was taken, that's what we will be doing in Ostia. That is why I need you, idiot. You can take me to the slave trader's house. What do you think we are going to do in Ostia? It's a wonder you can use those hands of yours to sculpt so well, your mind is so slow.” Marcus scowled and looked away. Not for the first time he wondered how the man riding beside him was able to pick his way in the dark so surely and so tirelessly. But he reminded himself that his companion had once been a soldier, tried and tested during one of the most gruelling campaigns the Roman Army had undertaken in a lifetime.

“Why are you concealing yourself?” Marcus tried again.  
“That is none of your business,” the other man growled irritably, “stop asking questions that I am not going to answer. You are the one who will be supplying a few answers.” Marcus sighed. He hoped with all his heart that when he had guided his companion to the slave trader's house he would be allowed to return to Rome. The idea of spending any more time with the short-tempered, uncommunicative and insulting man at his side was unbearable.

*

Turning his horse to return to the garrison and then home, Aulus Tarquinius rubbed his eyes and yawned. He was tired and was looking forward to a few hours of sleep. He had been on duty all night and also for several hours the day before. There had been trouble during the Volturnalia, festivities that usually just involved the odd incident of drunkenness, and he had been summoned to help deal with it. There had been the beginnings of a riot at the Forum Romanum, with a Senator, who had tried to calm the rabble, being threatened. Aulus and two of the other guards had accompanied the poor Senator home. Aulus had no patience with the vulgus, the violent mobs that occasionally reared their ugly heads in Rome, and he was well-informed enough to know that the rumours about a planned uprising of Celtic slaves were just that: rumours. But some Romans were hysterically afraid of a repeat performance of the Spartacus disaster, as unlikely as that was. Aulus also knew that the Emperor was on his way back to Rome and that he would quell the unrest immediately. Vespasian was an old soldier, brave, pragmatic and decisive, the only one who had survived the Year of Four Emperors that had seen the death of three rulers in the space of eighteen months. He was also ruthless and merciless as the Judeans had found out to their detriment. The people of Rome had become used to mob violence in the year of unrest, it was a tendency that had to be stamped out in Aulus' opinion, and Emperor Vespasian was the one to do it.

The night at the Servian Gate had been otherwise uneventful; apparently the mob had dispersed during the day, for which Aulus was very thankful. The sun was climbing over the horizon and the earliest risers, the slaves, were beginning their day's work, many of them occupied as messengers or transporting goods across the city on foot as traffic was restricted in the narrow streets of Rome. But turning the corner to the Forum, Aulus heard jeering voices and a scream, the sound of rabble baiting their victim. His heart sank and he almost turned back; he was on his own and although he was one of the best fighters in the guard and heavily armed, he knew his limits. He had policed the streets of Rome during the Year of Four Emperors, he had been on the side of the rebels when Nero was disposed of, he knew enough about riots to realistically judge his chances of dealing with a mob such as those that had been in evidence the day before. But Aulus was a brave man and a dutiful one at that, who took his job seriously and never shirked responsibility. So he spurred his horse on and turned the corner, where he was confronted with a crowd of people, obviously attacking someone in their midst.  
*

Formosus was shaking; he couldn't stop. The man who currently had him in his grip reminded him of Nero, he was short and fat and there was the same look in his eyes, cruel, pitiless and full of lust. He knew this man would harm him, perhaps irreparably. The worst of it was that he sensed that it was his fear above all other things that excited the man, but he could not stop himself. Tiro was nowhere to be seen, nor was Narses, the other guests were occupied, were looking away pointedly or watching avidly, eager to witness the violation of the handsome new slave. The man had an iron grip around his waist, the other hand was worming its way under Formosus, a finger wet with spit pushing its way painfully inside him, pressing onto his prostate and forcing a reaction out of his body, obvious for all to see after his captor had ripped away the short skirt covering his abdomen. In his panic, Formosus was hardly aware of his surroundings, but he saw Proteus smirk and out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw Bandak turn his head away in disgust and leave the room.

If he had thought it would do any good, Formosus would have begged for mercy but he knew that it would only spur his attacker on. He could have felled the man with one blow, he knew that, but he also knew that would mean death, or worse. Not long ago he would have welcomed death, but now he desperately wanted to live; he wanted to live because he knew that was what Quintus Aelius would have wanted him to do; he wanted to live because he still had to find out what it was that his master had left for him in the house in Tibur; the house, he realised with a rush, that was his own home because his master had gifted it to him in his will. He would have to bear whatever Fortuna had in store for him so that he could survive, live on and one day fulfil his dream of returning to Tibur and to the only connection with the man he still loved that was left. He squeezed his eyes shut and retreated into a corner of his mind to block out the pain and terror of the present moment.  
The Egyptian laughed low in his ear.  
“You are afraid,” he said gleefully, “but you cannot stop your body from reacting. How humiliating. You can close your eyes as tightly as you wish, but everyone is looking. Everyone will see the pain on your face when I fuck you. I will open you just enough to ease the way for me, not enough to ease the pain for you.” The Egyptian removed his fingers, that had been painfully manipulating Formosus' opening. “Rise a little,” he told Formosus, then you will sit down on my erection. I can't wait to impale you. And that will be only the start of it. Just imagine when I get you alone.” Formosus knew the threats were designed to frighten him because his captor relished the fear and because fear would prevent him from relaxing his muscles. He didn't move, but the Egyptian forced him to raise his hips until his entrance was above the man's erect penis. No one made a move to stop the proceedings, why should they? This was a rich and powerful merchant taking his pleasure with a slave who had no rights and no protection. He tried to think of all the good things that had been in his life, of Quintus Aelius who he had loved, of Junius with his frivolous behaviour that effectively hid a deadly serious moral outlook on life, of Titus Cassius and his kindness and of the house in Tibur where he had spent so many happy hours. But it all seemed faded and elusive, he could find no comfort there.

But before it began it was over.  
“What is the meaning of this?” an angry voice roared, his arm was grabbed and he was pulled to his feet. “How dare you attempt to take what is by rights mine, Unnufer?” Formosus blinked. The Egyptian had let him go and he was standing, swaying a little from the strain and fear, but unharmed. Immediately he felt an arm around him, supporting him. He turned to look at Tiro, who was not looking back at him, but was staring straight ahead in surprise.

“But Prince,” Unnufer wheedled, “I assumed you provided these slaves for your guests' entertainment, I had no idea...” he was cut short.

“Entertainment, yes, to look at, to admire, to touch even. To violate what is mine: no. You know that. If you need a whore for your entertainment that can be arranged, but I will not share my own personal porne with you.”

“you did not use to be so stingy,” Unnufer grumbled but he turned away and poured himself some more wine. Formosus looked up. He had calmed himself at least enough that he was able to take in what had happened. He now realised what it was that had arrested Tiro's attention. The man who had remonstrated with Unnufer was wearing a mask of gold that covered half of his face. The mask was beautifully wrought and depicted the features that it concealed, an eye set with a turquoise as an iris, moulded to the face in an exact model of the other, unadorned side. The man who had intervened and saved him from Unnufer's cruel grip was his new master, Prince Shakur.

“Narses!” the Prince called and clapped his hands briefly. From somewhere unseen, Narses came hurrying. “The red bedroom.” He pointed at Formosus and waved his hand dismissively. “Tirdat, follow me.”

*

“There were shouts and savage laughter, the sound of the basest human nature unleashed.

“Kill him!” they shouted, “Let's crucify him!”

“He's had nearly every woman in Rome,” another voice called out, “give him a taste of his own medicine! Rape him! Dirty slave, arrogant scum, thinks he is as good as a Roman citizen! Teach him a lesson he won't forget, teach him and his ilk that they cannot rise up against their masters!”

Aulus Tarquinius cursed inwardly. Obviously some of the stragglers of yesterday's riots had caught up with a slave they believed to be a Celt. Aulus wondered who the idiot of a master was that had let a Celtic slave outside at a time like this.  
“What are you doing, good citizens,” he called out in his loud, deep voice, “the Volturnalia are long over, why are you not in your beds or going about your business? Rioting in the street is against the law.”

“We aren't rioting,” one of the men piped up, “we caught one of the rebels, a Celtic slave.”

“There are no rebels,” Aulus growled, “and you are to disperse and go home.” He spurred his horse towards the crowd, who parted to reveal the dishevelled figure of a man, slim and of medium height, blood running down the side of his face, his costly toga ripped and his light-brown hair in disarray, falling down across his eyes.

“That's him,” an older man cried out, “he's a troublemaker if ever there were one, a womaniser, he fucks everything that moves.”

“That is not against the law,” Aulus sighed, “as long as the ladies don't complain.” The slave looked up at that, pulled one of his arms out of the grip of his captors and brushed his hair out of his eyes.

“I've never had any complaints so far,” he smirked at Aulus, prompting a howl of protest from the mob who began to close in on him again.

“Stop!” Aulus shouted. He looked at the slave with interest. When the man had looked him in the eye he had felt a little jolt in the pit of his stomach. He had never seen eyes so deep and overflowing with feeling. “How do you know he is a Celt anyway?”

“Everyone knows him,” another man spoke, “he is in and out of every bed in Rome, behind the backs of husbands, fathers and masters. He is the slave of Senator Titus Cassius, friend of the Celts, who lets him do as he pleases. He should be executed with his master! Stab the traitor! Crucify the slave!” Aulus thought fast. It was against his professional honour to let the mob carry on with their murderous intentions, but there was something else, too. The slave's defiance had touched him, he had obviously been badly mauled but he was not afraid, he was not cowed or chastened. He was a fighter, Aulus thought, and in addition to that he was gorgeous. Aulus could quite believe that the women of Rome, whether slaves or the good wives of the men in the angry mob before him, would not protest against spending a night with the Celt.

“Very well,” Aulus said, “but you are not authorised to arrest anyone; I am. I will take him away and have him locked up to await trial. Stand back.” It was a risk, but it was the only idea Aulus could come up with on the spur of the moment. It all depended on how much respect he as a Praetorian Guard could muster among the unruly mob.

“I don't know,” one of the men said, annoyed that the fun was to be so abruptly terminated, “we are Roman citizens and bound to protect our interests...”

“You are Roman citizens and bound to respect the laws of your emperor, and as a representative of Emperor Vespasian you are bound to respect my ruling,” Aulus interrupted harshly, “he is on his way to Rome. He will not be pleased to hear of the violence and lawlessness on the streets of his own city.” The crowd started to mumble. Aulus held his breath. Someone pushed the slave so that he stumbled towards Aulus.

“Arrest him,” an older man said, “it is time we rid ourselves of these murderous beasts.” Aulus pulled out a length of rope from his saddlebag and leaned down to the slave.

“Come closer and hold up your hands,” he told the slave. When the man complied, he bound his hands together and took the other end of the rope. “Now go home,” he addressed the crowd, “go to your beds or to your work and do your duties as Romans.” Aulus spurred his horse and tightened his grip on the rope. “Keep up,” he told the slave in a loud voice for the benefit of the crowd, “I am taking you to the Tullianum.”

*

Narses was very quiet as he accompanied Formosus down the corridor and back into the large bathroom, where he clapped his hands for the slaves there to fill the bath with warm, scented water. He waved Formosus into the bath and proceeded to scrub the gold dust and oil off his skin with thorough, firm strokes. Formosus didn't speak either, he had no idea whether he had done something wrong or somehow disgraced himself. He wondered what was in store for him but he was afraid to ask, for fear of hearing something that would frighten him even more. Narses face, usually cheerful and open, was like a shuttered window, expressionless and blank. Formosus, who was not particularly sensitive to other's moods at the best of times, had no idea how to gauge his demeanour.

Formosus let Narses dry him down, and then he followed the other man back down the corridor, fearful at first that he would have to return to the room and the Egyptian. But Narses turned a corner and they entered a part of the huge palace that Formosus had not seen before. He opened a large, guarded door and ushered Formosus wordlessly inside.  
The predominant colour in the room was a deep shade of red, the heavy material of the drapes on the windows and the bedclothes were red, as was the colouring of the ornate tiles on the floor and the murals with their reoccuring themes of male sexuality. A coloured statue of Priapus, his huge erect phallus a deep shade of red, stood in one corner of the room. Narses approached the bed and held back the cover.  
“Get in, child,” he ordered, avoiding Formosus' eyes. Formosus obeyed and Narses rolled him onto his stomach, preparing him expertly and without arousing him overmuch.

“What did I do wrong?” Formosus asked. Narses was silent, then he wiped his hands on a cloth and turned Formosus onto his back.

“Nothing, Kallias,” he answered, “you did nothing wrong.” He looked down at Formosus for a moment. “You are trouble,” Narses sighed, “nothing but trouble. But it is not your fault. You did nothing wrong, but someone will pay.”


	26. Chapter 26

“This is my favourite room,” a voice said, jolting Formosus out of a fitful sleep. He turned to look at the owner of the voice, dread washing over him. It was almost, but not quite a relief to see that it was not the Egyptian merchant, but his master who had spoken. The prince was shrugging off his chiton, the tunic he wore after the Greek fashion. Formosus watched him bare his body without speaking. He was a powerfully built man, but a little softened by his life of leisure, slightly older than Quintus had been, but his body was by no means unattractive. “You did not flinch when you saw my face,” the Prince remarked, “most people look away, or wince when they see my scars.” He pulled off the golden mask that covered half his face. Again, Formosus felt pity overwhelm him, not for this man who owned him, who he did not know, but for the injuries received by Quintus Aelius, the gash across his face that Formosus saw in his nightmares and in the dark moments of his waking hours. “Why does it not disgust you?” Formosus sat up.  
“I do not know, Master, perhaps because it is no fault of your own, no stain or blemish that marks you, but a wound, a sign of pain inflicted, a subject of pity rather than disgust.” Formosus spoke without thinking but he seemed to strike a chord with the other man.

“In Rome I would be ridiculed for such an affliction, is that not true?” the Prince asked, “did they not laugh at the Emperor Galba's father for being a hunchback? Do the Romans not deride any form of physical shortcoming and idolise physical perfection?”

“I am not a Roman, Master,” Formosus answered, “and although my people are not compassionate in battle, they do not make fun of those with physical defects.” The prince nodded.

“You do not fear my face,” he said, “but you were afraid of Unnufer, the Egyptian merchant. You were right. Unnufer is an unnaturally cruel man. He has spoiled a slave of mine before.” The prince got under the covers behind Formosus and pulled him close, an arm around his waist. “I will not let him have you.”

Formosus exhaled shakily. As much as he was relieved that he was obviously not destined to be the prey of the rich merchant, he was still uncertain as far as his new master was concerned. He had seemed cold, but now he was almost intimate in tone. Formosus was on edge. He could not gauge, could not trust his new master although he longed to feel safe. The only person in the palace that he truly felt at ease with was Tiro, because he at least was predictable. He felt the man lying in the bed beside him slide up behind him and press against him. He looked up at the ceiling and willed himself to relax. It was always the same, again and again and again. He wished it would stop. He was sick to the stomach of being a plaything, an object of other men's amusement.  
*

“The Tullarium is in the other direction,” Junius said, turning to look at the Guard on horseback who was leading him through the streets of Rome. The guard sighed and a look of amusement crossed his handsome face.

“I think you know very well that I am not taking you to the prison,” he smiled. Junius looked up at him and widened his eyes.

“Really?” he said innocently, “then I should be grateful. What can I do to repay you for your kindness?” He raised an eyebrow archly. The Guard laughed.

“You might shut up for five minutes,” he answered, but there was a grin on his face, “I haven't slept all night and your chatter is making my head hurt.” The Guard stopped his horse when they came to a narrow, empty road. “Come closer and hold up your hands.” Junius obeyed and the Guard untied his hands, coiled up the rope and pushed it back into his saddlebag. To Junius' surprise he then reached down with one strong arm, grabbed him around the waist and heaved him onto the horse in front of him.

“What are you doing?” Junius asked bemusedly.

“Taking you home,” the Guard answered, spurring his horse, “you are Titus Cassius' slave, so I am taking you to his house.”

Titus Cassius hadn't lost his temper quite so spectacularly since he had advanced to middle age. He took one look at Junius standing in the Atrium, grinning sheepishly and flanked by the tall Praetorian Guard who had been one of those who escorted him home after the unpleasantness in the Forum, and exploded.  
“What are you doing here?” he roared at Junius, “on no account were you to return to Rome. In fact I told you to stay in the house in Ostia, but no, you had to travel the dangerous roads to Tibur.”

“I can explain,” Junius interrupted, but Titus Cassius held up his hand.

“I accepted that, because I imagine you had your reasons. But for you to come here to Rome after I expressly forbade it is quite another thing. Did Italus not tell you that I did not want you to come here?”

“Yes, but I heard you were in danger...” Junius offered, only to be interrupted again.

“It is you who is in danger, stupide,” Titus Cassius shouted, “you could have been killed!”

“He very nearly was,” Aulus Tarquinius interjected, “I saved him from the mob.”

“It seems I owe you my thanks for a second time, Officer,” Titus Cassius said in a quieter voice to the Guard, “as for you,” he turned back to Junius and glared at him, “I should put you over my knee and spank you, something I unfortunately omitted to do when you were younger.” Junius raised an eyebrow and smirked.

“Perhaps you should,” he returned cheekily. Titus Cassius glowered at him.

“Get out of my sight, Junius,” Titus Cassius growled, “lest I forget myself.” Junius glanced at his master and saw that he was seriously angry. He thought it wiser to sneak off to the kitchen where he hoped to find something to eat and a measure of wine to amuse himself with until Titus Cassius had cooled off.

It was there that Titus Cassius found him, sitting at the kitchen table with a beaker of wine in front of him, staring at the wall. Titus Cassius sat down opposite him, sighing.  
“Why, Junius?” Titus Cassius asked, “I have never asked you to do anything you did not want to, just this once I implored you to stay away and you deliberately disobeyed.” Junius looked up at Titus Cassius and smiled sadly.

“I am afraid for you,” he said, “I will not leave you here alone. My life is worth nothing without you.” Titus Cassius stared at him and shook his head.

“You stupid boy,” he answered softly, but he was smiling, “you could have been killed. All I want is for you to be safe. But there never was any telling you what to do, you never would take orders.”

“I suppose I'm not a very good slave,” Junius replied wryly.

“You're not really a slave at all.” Titus Cassius gave a short laugh. “I had the paperwork done five years ago. I granted you manumission and adopted you.” Junius frowned.

“I like being your slave,” he grumbled.

“You haven't been my slave these past five years, if you really ever were,” Titus Cassius grinned, “I thought you would probably object to manumission so I kept it to myself. Legally you are my adopted son.”

“Does that mean we can't share a bed?” Junius frowned.

“Don't pretend that is important to you,” Titus Cassius answered, “you sleep with me to please me, I know that.”

“I love you,” Junius objected, “I love being with you. I don't want to be free.” He got up and threw his arms around the other man's neck. The fear of losing Titus Cassius had made him realise how dear the other man was to his heart.

“I love you too, pigheaded, wayward disobedient Celt. By the way, the Guard who brought you home asked for permission to visit you.” Titus Cassius laughed. “I told him you prefer girls.”

“I wouldn't have said no to the Guard,” Junius grumbled, “he was very good-looking – for a man.”

*

Formosus awoke because his shoulder was being shaken.

“Wake up,” someone hissed in his ear. Narses' face was looming over him, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. “You have to get up before Master rises.”

“Why?” Formosus mumbled, only to have Narses clamp his hand over Formosus mouth and pull him to his feet with the other hand. Still dazed and half-asleep, Formosus followed Narses out of the red room, looking over his shoulder at the slumbering form of his master, still asleep in the bed. The sun was only just rising.

“What is all this?” Formosus grumbled, “where are we going?”

“To get you cleaned up,” Narses answered shortly.

“Why did I have to leave before Master awakes?” Formosus insisted.

“Because he doesn't like to wake up next to a porne,” Narses snapped, elbowing a guard aside and thrusting open the door to the bathing room so hard that it smashed against the wall, “get into the bath.” Narses pushed away a couple of slaves and washed Formosus down briskly. He waved to the slaves to bring a towel and wrapped Formosus inside, rubbing him down.

“Have I done something to displease you?” Formosus demanded. He didn't really care whether Narses liked him or not, but he did want to understand what was going on. Narses stopped and looked at Formosus pensively.

“No,” he said abruptly, “you haven't. And Master is apparently very pleased with you. Come with me.”

“Where is Tiro?” Formosus asked.

“Not here,” Narses answered irritably. “Come along.” Formosus trotted along behind the other man.

“Where are we going?” Formosus insisted.

“I'm taking you to spend some time with the other pornai,” Narses returned, “as befits your station. You will have the opportunity to walk in the gardens this afternoon.”

“Tiro said I could use the gymnasium,” Formosus objected.

“Very well, I will instruct the guards to take you there later,” Narses answered grudgingly. He waved the guards aside and opened the door to the room in which Formosus had first met the other slaves. “Behave,” he said as he pushed Formosus inside and closed the door behind him. Formosus looked around. The eyes of five young men were fixed on him. Formosus nodded half-heartedly in greeting and immediately headed for one of the couches in a quiet corner away from the others. He flung himself down on it, still tired from lack of sleep the night before when he had been awoken several times in the night by his master, and turned on his side and closed his eyes. After a moment of silence, the murmur of voices that had suddenly been silenced by his arrival began again, and Formosus felt himself drifting off to sleep.

Before he could completely lose himself in Morpheus' arms though, he felt a hand stroking his thigh and a voice in his ear.  
“Are you all right?” someone asked gently. Formosus cracked an eye open and half-turned. It was Bandak, his delicate hand caressing Formosus' skin.

“I'm fine,” Formosus mumbled sleepily.

“The Egyptian did not hurt you?” Bandak inquired.

“No, Master came and stopped him,” Formosus explained. “I saw you leave,” he added resentfully.

“I went to alarm the guards, I told them to find Tiro and Master.” Bandak's hand gently rubbed circles into the skin on Formosus' hip.

“You did?” Formosus sat up. “Then it seems that I owe you my thanks.”

“You said you needed a friend.” Bandak looked at Formosus, then a small, crooked smile appeared on his face.

“Apparently I have found one.” Formosus reached out and ruffled the boy's dark hair, causing him to blush. Formosus half-closed his eyes again, then he sat up. There was an odd atmosphere in the room even he could pick up on. “Where is Proteus?” he asked, looking around. The brothers Castor and Pollux were sitting in a corner, talking together, India was staring out of the window with his huge, baleful eyes and Priamos was lying on a couch and eating grapes as if he were afraid they might disappear any minute and he might awake in the poverty of his parents hut again, “Tiro is not here either and Narses would not tell me where he is.” The boys all seemed subdued and avoided his eyes.

“Proteus is being punished,” Bandak said slowly, as if unwilling to impart that information, “I dare say Tiro is overseeing his punishment.” Formosus blinked.

“Punished? What for?” Apprehension crept up the back of his spine, pricking his skin with sweat. Bandak looked at him unsurely.

“It doesn't matter,” he said.

“Tell me, Bandak,” Formosus urged, “it has something to do with me, does it not? That is why everyone is acting so strangely.”

“It's not your fault,” Bandak insisted, “no one thinks it is your fault. Proteus brought it on himself.”

“That is why Narses was so strange,” Formosus continued, “he kept telling me it wasn't my fault but he treated me as if I had done something wrong.”

“Narses is always angry if one of us misbehaves,” Bandak explained, “because he is responsible for us and it reflects badly on his capabilities.”

“And what did Proteus do?” Formosus asked, “and why does this concern me?” Bandak looked at him hard. Formosus became aware that the others in the room had stopped speaking. Castor, the older and slightly taller of the two brothers got up and strolled over.

“Proteus created a distraction to make sure that Tiro and Master were late,” he explained, “and he must have made the Egyptian aware of you because I saw him speak to the man before you entered the room, and he also pointed you out. I suppose he told the Egyptian to take advantage of the fact that there would be no one there to stop him if he acted quickly.” Castor smiled. “No one blames you, Proteus is jealous, he has always been Master's favourite, now it seems he has been displaced.”

“I have no wish to displace him,” Formosus grumbled, trying to get his head around what he had just heard.

“What you wish interests absolutely nobody at all,” Castor answered languidly, “get used to it.”

*

The fat body of the slave merchant smashed against the wall. Marcus couldn't help wincing. The slave merchant's servant was lying on the floor groaning.

“You sold what wasn't yours to sell,” Marcus' tall companion roared, grabbing the dazed and frightened merchant by the front of his toga and shaking him, “you will hand over the money, and then you will tell me who you sold him to and where they have taken him.”

“I don't have the money,” the slave merchant whined, “I handed it over to the slave catchers who brought him...”

“Don't lie.” The slave merchant was slapped back against the wall while his attacker drew his sword. “Then I will just kill you and find the money myself. I'm sure your servant,” here he kicked out at the prostrate man, “will tell me everything I need to know.” The shaking man on the floor nodded enthusiastically. The slave merchant sighed.

“I will show you where the money is,” he agreed, if you will let me live.”

“I might let you live,” the other man said, setting his sword against the slave trader's fat neck, “if you answer my questions to my satisfaction and hand over the money, all of the money.” He looked down at the servant, writhing on the ground. “What sum did he get, and don't lie, I will know.”

“Ten thousand denarii,” the servant answered, “be merciful, sir, I swear I am not lying.”

“Then you will give me ten thousand denarii,” the tall Roman told the slave merchant, “or I will sever your worthless head from your fat, ugly body. I have been known to take over an hour to decapitate a foe.” The slave merchant began shaking worse than ever.

“But I don't have the ten thousand denarii,” he protested, “I gave the slave hunters their cut, two thousand in all! I can only give you eight thousand!”

“You owe me ten thousand,” the other man shouted, “and you will take two thousand from your personal fortune, which I assume amounts to much more than that. Or else...” he brandished his sword.

“Yes sir, I agree sir, I will give you the money, we can go to my office right away.” The fat slave trader smiled ingratiatingly.

“One moment,” the Roman interrupted, “you will tell me first to whom you sold the Celt.” The slave trader swallowed.

“A rich man, a Parthian,” the slave trader hurried to answer, “money was absolutely no issue. He saw the slave and bought him immediately. He was very gentle with him, I made sure he got a good master.”

“As if you care one way or another,” the tall man spat, “where did he take the Celt? Was he travelling back to Parthia?”

“Sir,” the servant piped up, “I overheard him saying that he was going to take the next ship bound for Alexandria. It sounded as if that was where he lived.”

“Good.” A rare smile graced the handsome face of Marcus' companion. “I will spare you. I'm nor sure about your master yet. Marcus?” he turned to face the young sculptor. “You will stay here and make sure that he does not escape.” He pointed at the still prostrate form of the servant. “I will get the money this wretch owes me.” Marcus watched as his companion followed the merchant out of the room, his sword prodding the other man between his shoulder-blades.

An hour later they were standing in the sun at the port of Ostia.  
“Now I have secured our passage money,” Marcus' tall companion said, “you must get our tickets. I would prefer not to show my face too openly at Ostia, there may be people here who know me. You will enquire which of the ships leaves for Alexandria, and return to me.” He leaned back against a wall in the shadows.

“We?” Marcus queried, “but surely you are not taking me with you?” he felt panic rise in his breast.

“I shall need help,” the other man said coolly, “and I am sure you will take pride in undoing the harm you have done.” Marcus stared at the other man, inclined to think that the man opposite him had no heart at all. But then a dog approached, a dirty, mangy mongrel and the man fumbled a morsel of food out of his saddle bag and held it out to the dog. His expression softened as he watched the animal eat. “I used to have a dog,” he said softly, “ a gentler animal never lived, unless you interfered with his food. Then he would bite.” The Roman straightened and frowned again. “So do I bite if that which belongs to me is interfered with, Marcus, and believe me, under the circumstances you are getting off lightly.”


	27. Chapter 27

“I know this is much to ask of you,” Emperor Vespasian leaned forward, “and you may tell no one, not even your most trusted friend, not even your concubinus.” He patted the other man's hand. “If you decide to go through with it you must promise me this.”  
“There can be no question of my not going through with it, Emperor,” the Senator answered, “you led us into battle in Britannia, and I have always supported you. I owe you my allegiance.”

“You owe me nothing, Quintus Aelius,” the Emperor said, “you must do this voluntarily or not at all. You are one of the few men I trust otherwise I would not ask this of you. It is dangerous, it could cost you your life.”

“I will make the necessary provisions,” Quintus Aelius answered, but his heart sank. First and foremost he had to make sure that Formosus would be protected.

Three emperors had been dispatched of in eighteen months, all due to conspiracies. Nero was backed into a corner until he killed himself, Galba and Ortho were assassinated. Vespasian knew that his position was tenuous, but he had to leave Rome when the Jews revolted and threatened to overthrow Roman rule in Judea. If he lost control of Judea, he would lose control of Rome. A moment of weakness, and the next usurper would reach for the throne, just as he had. It was that simple.  
Vespasian was a soldier, he knew he had to lead his army to battle. There were undercurrents of conspiracies in Rome, others who were waiting for the chance to usurp Vespasian's position just as he had displaced Ortho. He feared for his son, and he knew that Rome would be plunged in to a chaos even worse than it had been before if the conspiracies were allowed to take hold. Already the plotters were creating distractions, trying to whip up emotions against convenient scapegoats such as the Celtic slaves. When the Romans were thoroughly convinced that they faced imminent danger, the conspirators would step in and take over control of Rome while Vespasian was elsewhere. The emperor needed reliable allies in Rome to work against his enemies undercover. Quintus Aelius was one of the most trustworthy and brave soldiers Vespasian had ever led. He was an obvious choice.  
*

“So,” Junius demanded, “when are we going?”

“When it is safe to do so,” Titus Cassius looked up from the scroll he was reading, “if at all.”

“We need to get out of Rome,” he insisted. Titus Cassius put down the scroll.

“The Emperor will be here in a few days, so a reliable source tells me, then there will be an end to these riots.” Titus Cassius smiled benevolently. “Why don't you get us some wine?” Junius got up and came to stand in front of his Master.

“What about Formosus? I'm not just going to leave him to his fate, you know.” Junius shoved his face in front of the other man's until their noses were nearly touching.

“You needn't worry about Formosus,” Titus Cassius answered complacently, pulling Junius onto his lap, “help is already on its way. In fact, it is in Ostia, perhaps even beyond there by now.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Junius struggled half-heartedly and briefly, then grudgingly let Titus Cassius caress his hair. The young man was not particularly fond of cuddling, even with his female conquests he preferred to get straight to the point.

“Formosus' rescue is in able hands,” Titus Cassius said, smiling at Junius obvious impatience at being embraced like a child, “thanks in part to the message you sent me from Ostia. I was able to relay it's content to a, shall we say, interested party, who used the intelligence he gained to take up the chase. I imagine he is already hot on Formosus' heels.”

“You speak in riddles, Master,” Junius answered, frowning, “who is this interested party?”

“That I am not at liberty to say,” Titus Cassius grinned, “but rest assured, it is only a matter of time before your friend arrives back in Rome.”

“But who has gone after him?” Junius insisted.

“The bravest soldier and the most honourable man I have ever known,” Titus Cassius replied solemnly, “and one I thought I would never have the pleasure of seeing again.” Junius narrowed his eyes.

“It can't be,” he hissed.

“My lips are sealed,” Titus Cassius smiled.

“You think,” Junius said scornfully.

*

Quintus Aelius couldn't sleep. He was put in mind of the journey from the coast of Britannia to Gaul with Formosus retching continuously. Marcus on the other hand was snoring happily in his bunk. The tall Roman couldn't help feeling resentful. When Titus Cassius' messenger had relayed to him the message that Junius had sent from Ostia, hatred had infested his gut at this idiot of a boy who had caused Formosus so much pain. He had hindered him from reaching Tibur and safety, and just when he had escaped capture again, he had betrayed him to the slave-hunters. The boy kept insisting that he had inadvertently led the slave-hunters to Formosus, but Quintus couldn't be bothered to listen. Marcus was a fool and an idiot, and Quintus only tolerated him because he needed help and did not want to endanger a friend.

He had briefly considered asking Titus Cassius whether he could take Junius with him to find Formosus, he knew Junius would have leapt at the opportunity, and he could trust the Celt implicitly. The fact that Junius had tried his hardest to save Formosus, together with an elusive Greek runaway slave was something that the Senator would not forget in a hurry. But he was sure that Titus Cassius would not allow him to take Junius with him, and he did not want to endanger the slave. Junius had a tendency for getting into trouble that might not be a very helpful trait on a perilous journey.  
But more than Marcus, Quintus Aelius blamed himself. If only he had had more time to prepare his departure, perhaps he could have made sure that Formosus was out of Rome when he was forced to put his plan into operation. Worse though was the realisation that his over-protective urges towards Formosus were to blame for the fact that the man had panicked and despaired, unable to react rationally. Formosus was a grown man but he still acted like a child thanks to Quintus' sheltering him from anything remotely uncomfortable. And still, for all the trouble he had taken to protect the slave, he hadn't been able to save Formosus from Nero. Quintus gritted his teeth. When he got Formosus back, when and not if, things would change. He would change.  
There was no way he would be getting back to sleep that night. Apart from the vital information he had gleaned while in Rome, he had also been informed of some other news, news that weeks ago would have filled him with joy, but now made his position even more difficult. Camilla, his wife was pregnant, and she was apparently not being shy about advertising the fact.  
Quintus lay back on the bunk and kicked off the covers. It was warm and he was restless. His hand wandered down between his legs. He couldn't recall even thinking about sex since the fateful morning when he faked his own death and set a chain reaction of tragic events in motion. He pictured Formosus' face, the strong nose, large, gentle eyes and perfectly curved, dark red mouth; his teeth which were straight apart from one eye tooth which was set at an angle, something that could only be seen when Formosus smiled widely, which he seldom did. Quintus loved that little imperfection just as much as Formosus' more obvious charms. The idiot sculptor had stopped snoring and Quintus decided on a little light relief to help him sleep. He couldn't wait to hold Formosus in his arms again, and he didn't doubt that he would.  
There was a full moon outside, and its silvery light was pouring through the porthole of the boat. Marcus half awoke, his companion was obviously restless and couldn't sleep. Marcus shifted slightly and opened his eyes to see what was bothering the other man. The senator was lying on top of the covers, unclothed, with a hand between his legs, stroking himself. His head was tipped back on the pillow, his eyes closed. Marcus couldn't look away, the moonlight was playing over the other man's muscular body, flickering over the clenching muscles of his stomach as he pleasured himself. The Senator moaned quietly, it was a garbled word but Marcus had no difficulty understanding it. Formosus. Marcus' cheeks burned with shame, but he still didn't look away. His own hand strayed between his legs. The senator's back arched up like a bow and he sighed as he came. Marcus turned away hurriedly as he spilled into his own hand.  
*

In the extensive grounds surrounding the Prince's palace was a gymnasium in the Greek style, complete with a running track. Formosus ran, striking an easy rhythm as he jogged around the track. Bandak had run with him for the first few rounds but had eventually withdrawn to watch, panting and out of breath. For the first time in weeks Formosus felt good. He loved to feel the breeze in his hair and the sun on his face. The guards who had accompanied them to the Gymnasium were leaning against the wall, one of them was the light-brown eyed man whose gaze didn't leave Formosus. Every so often, he smiled at him. The had spent the afternoon in the garden together and the man, who spoke Greek only haltingly and Latin not at all, had explained to him that he was from Scythia, a huge country to the North East. His home was in a part of that country where the weather was cool and the forests huge. He had come to Alexandria as a mercenary in the Greek army but had stayed in the employment of the Prince, who paid him handsomely.

Formosus became aware that something had changed. The guards were no longer leaning against the wall but standing up straight, their eyes respectfully lowered, and Bandak had dropped onto his knees with his head bowed. Looking around as he ran, he realised that Prince Shakur was standing and watching him, flanked by Tiro, whose face was unreadable. The Prince wore his mask but his smile was unmistakable. Formosus slowed, unsure of how to react, whether to kneel down or to keep running. He saw Tiro wave him over, so he stopped running and slowly walked over to the Prince. Tiro motioned him to kneel, so he went gracefully onto his knees before Prince Shakur, and bowed his head. He felt fingers run through his hair, clutch it and use it to gently raise his face.  
“You run well,” the Prince said, “you have a beautiful body. I would like to see you use it in a wrestling match. Do you wrestle?” Formosus thought of Quintus Aelius, who had taught him how to wrestle, and that all their matches had invariably ended in sex.

“A little, Master,” he replied.

“You,” the prince shouted to the light-eyed guard, “you wrestle, I've seen you. I want to see you two together.” Formosus looked uncertainly over to the guard, who just shrugged.

“Yes, my prince,” he said in his halting, heavily accented Greek.

“Follow me,” the Prince ordered, and Formosus and both Guards followed Prince Shakur and Tiro into the gymnasium, trailed by Bandak, “and if you please me, you will be rewarded.”

In one of the rooms next to the cold baths was a bench with olive oil and powder for the wrestlers to prepare themselves. While the guard disrobed, Formosus began to oil himself. He could feel the guard's eyes on him as he furtively assessed his opponent's body. The guard was short and compact, an ideal wrestler's build. His body was heavily muscled, there was no fat or flab anywhere on him. Formosus knew he would be at a disadvantage with his height and long limbs. When the guard removed his underwear, Formosus saw his member, large and thick, and already half erect. He recalled Quintus always reprimanding him for being so easily distracted. Perhaps that would work in his favour this time.  
Formosus was an athlete by nature, he loved to compete and he loved to win. He was wrestling for the titillation of his master, he knew that, but he still wanted to win. With a grin he poured more oil into the palm of his hand and smoothed it onto the insides of his thighs with a lascivious gesture. He saw the guard swallow and harden even more. He looked up and caught Tiro's eye. There was the ghost of a smile on the other man's face.  
After both men were oiled and dusted with powder to make it easier to get a grip on one another's bodies, they went out to the wrestler's pitch outside. The ground was hard and dried out by the sun that shone relentlessly in Alexandria, although the pitch was shaded by tall palm trees. The opponent had to be wrestled to the ground three times so that his shoulder, back or hip touched the earth. Slaves came hurrying with a chair that they set down behind the Prince; when he was seated one of them used a large fan made of interwoven palm fronds to gently create a slight breeze for the Prince to feel cooler in the heat. Although he came from a cool climate, the heat had never bothered Formosus, and he suspected that the Scythian guard had more of a problem with the hot sun then he had. Sweat was trickling between the man's well defined chest muscles and down his flat stomach, gathering in the dark pubic hair surrounding his half-hard, thick penis. Formosus averted his gaze and tried to concentrate.  
The Prince had hardly signalled them to start when Formosus found himself on his back, his long limbs flailing, the guard's grinning face above him as he tried to push Formosus down onto the ground to win the round. Strength-wise, they were evenly matched, Formosus was faster but the Scythian had better balance due to his compact build. Formosus struggled, but he felt his shoulder touch the parched ground and knew he had lost that round. He tried to concentrate and heard the Senator's voice echo in his head: You're too easily distracted, Formosus! He set his teeth and got to his feet, carefully circling his opponent.  
The guard was sure of himself, he was grinning confidently. Formosus slid a hand down his own torso and watched the guard's eyes follow his fingers as they smoothed over his chest and belly. As soon as he saw the Scythian's eyes stray he grabbed the man by the shoulders, shoved a thigh behind the other man's legs and toppled him onto his back, following him down and forcing his hip onto the ground. The guard looked up at him with surprise and Formosus smiled and shrugged, getting up to let the other man rise. They were even again.  
Facing each other, Formosus fixed his attention on the other man's eyes. In the same second they strayed yet again, he pounced and had his adversary down for a second time.  
“Very good, Kallias,” the Prince said, “very good indeed. The winner takes all. If you get him down a third time, you are the taker, if he gets you down two more times, then he takes.” Formosus looked over at the Prince, puzzled. The words made no sense to him. From the smirk on the guard's face he assumed that his opponent had understood very well what their master had meant. He glanced over at Tiro, but the older man was frowning slightly, there was nothing to read in his face. Releasing his hold on the other man, Formosus got up with his customary grace, stepping back to allow the other man to position himself opposite. The guard looked elated, whatever this reward was it was obviously something the other man coveted. He would have to be careful.

They two men grappled, they were evenly matched. The guard had one arm around Formosus waist, the other on his hip, reaching round to clutch his buttock.  
“There is not much to hold onto,” he panted, smiling at Formosus. Formosus raised an eyebrow.

“Lucky for me,” he answered, trying to tip his opponent onto his back. They pushed, shoved and wrestled for several minutes, and just as Formosus thought they were so evenly matched that neither of them would win the round, the Scythian suddenly lost balance and fell, Formosus dropped to the ground after him and pushed him onto his shoulder. Elated he raised his arms and laughed for the first time in weeks. The exertion had done him good, his body ached, but it felt good. He got up and held out a hand to help his opponent up.

“You win,” the guard said looking a lot more pleased that Formosus would have been in his place, “you take.”

“Take what?” Formosus looked around at Tiro, puzzled, who walked over to him and held out the bottle of oil they had used to anoint their bodies.

“I shall enjoy seeing you in this role, Kallias,” the Prince said, leaning back in his chair, “now prepare him. You may both come.”

“I don't understand,” Formosus scowled. The guard laughed.

“You won, you get to fuck me. If I had won, that would have been my privilege. Don't make me wait.” The guard turned his back to Formosus and bent slightly forward at the waist, exposing himself. Helplessly, Formosus looked at his Master.

“Master,” Formosus stuttered.

“What is wrong with him?” The Prince turned to Tiro.

“You are to do as you are told,” Tiro addressed Formosus, “your master is rewarding you.”

“But I haven't done this before,” Formosus protested.

“I gave you an order!” The Prince jumped to his feet. “I can have you whipped instead if you would prefer.”

“No, Master, sorry Master,” Formosus answered, pouring oil over his fingers. The guard looked over his shoulder at him and grinned encouragingly.

Formosus sighed and pushed one oily finger into the guard gingerly. He was rewarded with an appreciative groan, and after dilating the opening for a moment, he added a second finger. Judging by the sounds he was making, the guard was thoroughly enjoying himself. Formosus was not. Strangely, he felt unhappy about this turn of events. All the violation his body had suffered had never worried him as much as this. In some strange way he felt for the first time that he was betraying his beloved Master's memory. He could not help but recall that afternoon when they bathed in the White Water and the Senator had nearly allowed him to penetrate him. If his Master had been the first, this would not seem so tragic.  
It wasn't the guard that Formosus objected to. He had cultivated the Scythian's friendship and spent an afternoon in the garden talking to him. He was a likeable, cheerful soul, physically attractive and quite obviously very much taken with Formosus. He didn't even mind that fact that his first penetration would be in front of an audience, with the Prince and, less enthusiastically, Tiro watching. By now he had lost almost all sense of shame. In fact, it was the thought of his old master that upset Formosus. He wished that Quintus Aelius had not been quite so stubborn and so aware of his position as his master. Formosus knew that the Roman had wanted it too, that afternoon on the way to Tibur.  
Bandak was still hovering on the edge of the grass, forgotten by all and unsure of whether to stay or to go. He looked worried and upset, so Formosus gave him a tight smile which he answered. The guard turned then and held out his hand for some oil.  
“That's enough,” he said, “your turn.” Formosus poured some oil into the guard's palm and watched while the other man rubbed it into his penis. He could feel himself swell while the Scythian manipulated his member and testicles expertly.

“You have a very beautiful penis,” the guard said unabashedly, “I look forward to feeling it inside me.” Formosus paused briefly and narrowed his eyes.

“You cheated,” he whispered, “you let me win. You knew that this would be the reward.” The guard smiled and resumed his stroking.

“The Prince enjoys watching,” he murmured, “ this is often the outcome of the tasks he sets his servants and slaves.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Formosus' mouth. “Don't think so much, just enjoy it. I shall.” He turned and bent at the waist as he had before, offering himself to Formosus.

Formosus looked over to his Master, but the side of his face that was not covered by the mask was just as immovable as its counterpart. He then glanced at Tiro, who rolled his eyes at him and gestured with his head to get on with it. He had the fleeting impression that Tiro did not approve, but he couldn't think why. Tiro was devoted to the Prince, and this was what pleased the Prince. Tiro had no reason to disapprove. Feeling decidedly ill at ease, Formosus decided to act before his rapidly softening member let him down completely. He set the tip of it at the guard's entrance, and pushed.  
“You'll have to try harder than that,” the guard chuckled, looking over his shoulder. Formosus shoved harder, and suddenly he was past the ring of muscle and his glans was surrounded by soft warmth. He gasped, the sensation was overwhelming and he could not resist pushing in further. “Slow down,” the guard warned, “first you hesitate, now you're over eager. Give me a chance to adjust, then you can push in further.”

“More,” the Scythian told him after a few seconds, so Formosus pushed. It was easier now and before he could stop himself he had slid right inside the other man.  
“Are you all right?” he gasped. The Scythian laughed.

“Never better,” he answered, “now move.”

“Pulling out slightly, then pushing back in, Formosus said: “Your name, what's you're name? You've never told me.” The guard laughed breathlessly.

“How sweet you are,” he panted, “my name is Atheas.” He felt the other man's hand cover his own, which was clutching the guard's shoulder, and squeeze it encouragingly. Through half-closed eyes he saw Atheas reach for his own member and bring himself off with short, sharp strokes before his own orgasm took over, making him shudder from head to toe and bathing the world in a blinding white light.


	28. Chapter 28

Junius was sitting on a stone bench by a fish pond in the garden, his feet propped up on the low wall around the pond. He was eating grapes plucked from the vine in the garden, and spitting the occasional pip into the water. He wasn't really thinking about anything particular when a heavy hand on his shoulder made him jump and nearly fall off his seat. His encounter with the mob had left him more shaken and jumpy that he cared to admit. He turned around, about to angrily admonish whoever had startled him, and came face to face with the Praetorian guard who had saved him.

“Ave, Junius,” the guard grinned, “did I scare you?” Junius frowned.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Senator Titus Cassius gave me permission to visit you,” the guard answered.

“Oh really?” Junius wrinkled his pretty nose. “Did he mention that I prefer to spend my time in female company?”

“He might have mentioned it,” Aulus smiled and took a seat next to Junius on the bench, “but it doesn't put me off.”

“You do realise,” Junius said haughtily, “that I also have a relationship with my Master.”

“I thought you only slept with women,” Aulus interrupted unconcernedly.

“With women, and my Master,” Junius frowned.

“The senator told me that he is not your master,” Aulus lay back on the bench and stretched, “and that you are not his slave, but that he adopted you.”

“The fact remains that we have a relationship,” Junius was getting annoyed.

“Obviously not an exclusive one,” Aulus put an arm around Junius' shoulders, “and the Senator assured me that he would not mind me visiting you occasionally.” Junius shrugged the arm off his shoulders.

“I'm not really interested in men,” he scowled.

“You make exceptions, it seems,” Aulus said.

“Listen,” Junius started to growl, “I am very grateful for your help yesterday and you are certainly a handsome, brave and presumably supremely talented young guard but...” and here he could speak no more, because the young guard in question had grabbed his shoulders, pulled him towards himself and covered his mouth with his own in a passionate kiss that Junius found himself responding to enthusiastically.

*

Acilius Aviola was an old man in his seventies. He had been advisor to the Emperor Claudius, had been Consul and Proconsul and was currently in charge of Rome's water supply, an important and prestigious post. He was also Emperor Vespasian's most trusted confidant and a man Quintus Aelius had known for years.

“If you go through with this, Senator,” Acilius Aviola was saying, “there will be repercussions for yourself and your family. I'm not sure how we can avoid that. The problem is, your help may be required any day now, or next year, or not at all. We have no idea. Make as many provisions as you can, but you have your household to think of, your wife, your concubinus and the rest of your family. It would be best if no one can associate you with our plan.”  
“I will be the first person they suspect,” Quintus Aelius said darkly, “I should make sure my household leaves Rome as soon as possible.”

“It might be too late for that,” Acilius Aviola answered, “or the day may never come. You cannot have your household leave Rome indefinitely. Are you having second thoughts about this?”

“Of course not,” Quintus Aelius scoffed, but it was true. He was worried. There was no getting around the fact that it was a dangerous enterprise. He might die. Those closest to him might die. There was not only Formosus and his own wife, there was also his sister, his brother-in-law and his nephew to think of. He would have to come up with a way of protecting them. Above all, he must not let Formosus notice that there was anything wrong. Formosus would worry and panic; since that ill-fated night at Nero's palace Formosus had become worse than ever. And Formosus could not lie and was the worst actor Quintus Aelius had ever encountered. Everything he felt was mirrored in his face. Vespasian had been right. He should tell no one, and especially not Formosus.

But of course Formosus noticed that there was something wrong, and being Formosus, he immediately assumed it had something to do with him. Quintus Aelius was aware that Formosus was dead set against his pet project, having a statue fashioned in his likeness which was something that the Senator had wanted to do for a long time. He had no idea why the slave was so against the idea. Formosus had somehow got it into his head that Quintus Aelius no longer wanted him when the reverse was true, but unfortunately the Roman was as unable to communicate his true feelings as the Celt was. The Senator was also well aware that the young and extremely talented sculptor was besotted with his slave, and that Formosus had clumsily flirted with the young man. Quintus Aelius didn't like that, but he knew Formosus meant no harm and was just curious, so he ignored the stolen kisses he had witnessed and put them down to youthful folly. It didn't matter, Quintus Aelius had other worries.  
*

Standing on the deck of the boat sailing into the port of Alexandria, Quintus couldn’t help admiring what was arguably the most beautiful city in the Roman Empire. He had been there before as a youth to visit the great library, and although he had not been that impressed at the time, preferring to admire the fine features of the Egyptian and Greek men he saw than to wonder at the most comprehensive collection of all the knowledge in the civilized world that had ever existed. But it did inspire him to start his own collection of scrolls when he was a little more mature and to begin his own modest library.

Although he loved Rome with all his heart, centre of the Roman Empire and unparalleled in its historic significance save perhaps for Athens, the Senator couldn’t help thinking how cleverly the town had been planned with its straight, wide roads on which two carts could pass each other easily and still leave room for people on foot. How different from the narrow, winding roads in Rome where traffic was restricted to certain times of the day and certain errands to avoid congestion.

As he looked out over the town, Quintus wondered how, in a population of about half a million, he would find Formosus. He could disregard the Jewish Quarter, they were not rich as a rule and their religion, which Quintus eyed with the same suspicion as he did the strange beliefs of the Christians, forbade them from having relations with a man or indeed having sexual relations outside of marriage at all. The Egyptian quarter was less likely, too; it was poor, and rich Egyptians would probably be living in the Greek quarter where the wealthiest inhabitants of Alexandria had their villas and palaces.

He had gleaned some helpful information from his interrogation of the slave trader’s intimidated servant. The man had told him that Formosus’ new buyer had spoken Greek and Latin with a heavy accent he could not identify, he was somewhat darker skinned and the servant did not take him for an Egyptian. There were of course people from many parts of the Roman Empire and beyond living in Alexandria, but it did narrow it down somewhat knowing that he was not looking for someone belonging to one of the main groups of the population. The difficulty would surely be that Formosus would most probably be kept locked up somewhere, it was probably obvious to his new owner that he would flee given the chance, and it was highly unlikely that his owner had brought him all the way from Rome to Alexandria to be sent on the streets as a messenger boy. Given Formosus’ looks, Quintus knew that he would have been bought for one thing only.

For the first time, Quintus felt afraid. The most horrible fantasies plagued him; he had terrible thoughts of Formosus being traumatized and tortured, so that even if he managed to find the Celt he would be so badly damaged that he would never recover. He turned around to see the young sculptor come up from the cabin onto the deck, blinking in the bright sunlight. He looked very young, scarcely more than a boy. Quintus felt a twinge of bad conscience at his treatment of the youth. He smiled encouragingly and asked: “Have you ever been out of Rome, Marcus?”

“I’ve been to Greece,” the sculptor answered proudly, “to study my art from the Greek masters.”

“Then you are an experienced traveler,” Quintus said kindly, “but Alexandria is a wonderful city, even to one who has seen many parts of the world.” Marcus looked out over the city.

“By all the gods,” he sighed, “how are we to find Formosus in a city of so many people?”

*

Iason watched as Italus rode out of the gates of the villa, waving as he turned the corner. The road was dangerous, and Italus had left at a quick canter. He had tried to persuade Iason to accompany him, but Iason knew that to enter Rome was to reacquaint himself with servitude; there were so many people who knew him and his master that it would be impossible to avoid detection for long. Also, he did not know Titus Cassius, Italus’ and Junius’ master, and could not believe that a Senator and Roman noble would not side with his own kind and immediately send Iason back to his master. Iason did not know what to do. He could stay at the villa indefinitely, he could find enough to eat and curious passersby could be fobbed off with some lie about his being Quintus Aelius’ slave, left there to watch over the villa. He had promised Junius to stay put until he was sent for or Junius returned. On the other hand he could easily make his way from Tibur to the port of Aternum on the Adriatic coast and then board a ship to Greece.

He had just turned to reenter the villa when he heard the hooves of several horses beating on the ground and the distant murmur of voices. This was a large group of people as far as Iason could tell, and they were approaching fast, coming from the opposite direction from that in which Italus had just headed. Iason now wished he had accompanied Italus, because the riders were obviously coming straight towards the villa. There was no other building even near the area, and the road did not run past the house, but stopped at the gate. Iason did not know whether to brazen it out and pretend to be Quintus Aelius’ slave, or to hide somewhere in the grounds until the unwanted visitors had moved on. From the sound this was no random hunting party but a group of well-organised riders, soldiers perhaps even. Iason didn’t like the sound of it at all.  
*

Formosus woke with a start, sweat streaming down his face and a scream on his lips, but there was a cool hand on his brow and a soothing voice in his ear. An oil lamp flickered and he saw Tiro’s face in front of his eyes. Formosus blinked. His mind tried to struggle free of the nightmare that plagued him nearly every night, the dream about the knife that cleaved Quintus Aelius’ smiling face in two and left a gash from which blood spilled uncontrollably.

“What are you doing here?” Formosus asked Tiro, looking confusedly around his bedroom. It was dark outside, it must be past midnight.

“I was passing your door and heard you cry out,” Tiro explained, withdrawing his hand quickly as if he had been caught doing something unacceptable. “I know you have nightmares and do not like to sleep alone. Perhaps we can arrange to have someone sleep in your room.”

“It’s late,” Formosus slurred sleepily, “why are you not in your own bed?”

“I need very little sleep,” Tiro explained, “and my master sometimes has errands for me to run at night.” Formosus slid back against the wall to make room in his bed.

“You can sleep here,” he told Tiro, who smiled at him.

“No,” he shook his head, “but I will sit with you until you go back to sleep.” Formosus closed his eyes, and then opened them again.

“Why are you so kind to me?” he asked. Tiro laughed shortly.

“Do you think I am kind?” he asked gently, “I bought you and took you away from Rome to be a porne in a rich man’s collection. That is not particularly kind.”

“I am not badly treated here, and you watch over me, it could be worse,” Formosus answered. “I know that you treat me differently from the rest. Why?” Tiro stretched out his hand in a helpless gesture of affection, stroking Formosus’ arm.

“Let’s just say that you remind me of someone. Perhaps that is why I cannot be wholly indifferent to your fate. Now sleep. If you cannot sleep I will give you a sleeping draught, nothing dangerous, just the essences of some herbs that will guarantee a deep and dreamless slumber.”

“I can sleep now,” Formosus mumbled. Then his eyes flicked open. “Why are you here?” he asked, “you are a doctor, speak several languages, surely you should be a scholar at the Museion here in Alexandria, or at the Platonic Academy in Athens. Why do you spend your life as a servant?”

“I am respected, well remunerated and can travel on my Prince’s orders. I live a life of luxury as few others do. Why should I not live here?” Tiro smoothed the covers over Formosus, who looked up at him intently.

“You love him, don’t you, I see it in your eyes,” Formosus said suddenly. Tiro frowned. After a while he said: “I pity him. I have known him a very long time.Yes, perhaps I love him in my way. I feel responsible for him. Maybe you are right. Now sleep.”

Even without Tiro’s sleeping draught, Formosus slept deeply, and when he awoke the next morning because Narses was shaking his shoulder, he felt refreshed. He followed the other man into the bathing room, nodding a friendly greeting to the guard Atheas on his way. Narses bad mood seemed to have lifted because he was humming to himself while he washed and combed Formosus hair.  
“We should cut your hair,” he remarked. Formosus shrugged.

“I don’t care,” he answered.

“Don’t pretend you are not bothered about your looks,” Narses chided, “I know you are well aware of them.” Formosus grunted. He had no wish to be drawn into conversation by Narses who he neither liked nor trusted. With a yelp he felt Narses’ finger intrude inside him.

“What are you doing that for?” he turned on the other man.

“Master wishes to see you,” Narses answered shortly, “now.” Formosus couldn’t help rolling his eyes. Narses gave his face a sharp slap.

“Don’t be disrespectful,” he threatened, “or I will have you whipped.”

“Is that what happened to Proteus?” Formosus demanded.

“That is none of your concern,” Narses answered, shoving in a second finger. “You may be very beautiful but you have a nasty streak of rebellion in you which should be driven out. No wonder you were sold by your previous master.” Angrily, Formosus turned and pushed Narses back so hard that he fell flat on his back.

“He didn’t sell me, he died! He freed me after his death! He would never have sold me.” Formosus couldn’t stop tears from pricking his eyes.

Narses’ slaves came rushing to help him up. When he was standing again, he spoke in a low voice that he was obviously controlling with difficulty.

“Both the Prince and Tiro are completely bewitched by you,” Narses said, “perhaps you are a druid among your people, Celt, and can work some pretty magic. But beware. Your temper will be your downfall yet, and I am not inclined to tolerate your cheek. Beautiful or not, if a horse can’t take the bit it is of no use at all. You will behave when you are with your master. If you disgrace me I will make sure your punishment is severe. Ah, Tiro,” he said as the door opened, “he is ready.” Tiro nodded and smiled a little sadly as he looked at Formosus.

When they had left the room and were out of earshot of the guards, Tiro said: “I shall ask Master about some clothes for you. There is no reason for you to be naked all day.”  
“None of the others wear clothes,” Formosus answered.

“No,” Tiro responded slowly.

“I do not mind,” Formosus said, “it is warm here and I am not ashamed of my body.”

“You have no reason to be ashamed,” Tiro agreed but he still looked sad.

“My people,” Formosus faltered. He had not referred to the Celts like that for years. Quintus Aelius had always been who he belonged with. “My people,” he repeated with a firm voice, “often go to battle naked. They paint their bodies blue, with woad. They are not ashamed.”

“No, Formosus,” Tiro smiled, “and they are formidable enemies to be sure. You are right. You should wear your nakedness with pride.” They stopped in front of one of the doors which the guards opened.

The Prince was looking out of the window of a a sumptious apartment into the garden.  
“I am tired of Alexandria, Kallias,” he said, “I think I need a change. Come here.” Formosus obeyed and came to stand in front of the other man. He was not wearing his mask, and the ravaged side of his face disarmed Formosus. He could think of nothing but the Senator. “Kiss me, Kallias,” the Prince ordered, and Formosus leant forward to gently press his lips against the twisted mouth of his Master. The unharmed side of his mouth turned up into a smile. “You please me, Kallias, very much,” the Prince continued, “perhaps I should take you with me.”

“Master?” Formosus asked carefully.

“I will be travelling to Suza with Tiro,” the Prince explained, “I have some business to attend to there and I shall welcome the change. I think I shall take you. You are good company and it will be far nicer to have you with me than to rely on the services of the hired pornai on the way. They are very seldom up to my standards. You will travel with me to Suza. Tiro?” he called, opening the door, “I have decided that Kallias shall accompany us on our journey, make the necessary arrangements. Tiro looked at the Prince, then his gaze rested on Formosus. A rare smile spread across his face.

“Very well, my Prince,” he answered, “I shall begin at once.”


	29. Chapter 29

Alone in his room, Formosus tried to sort out his thoughts and feelings. He had never given up hope that he would be able to escape from the palace and some point and return to Italia receive Quintus Aelius' message. Deep in his heart though, he knew that this was an unrealistic goal to pursue. Even if, with the help of the alliances he was tentatively forging, he was able to leave the palace undiscovered, there was still the problem that he would then be in a strange city without the means to secure a ship's passage for himself. He wore a silver collar, only removable with a key, that made him instantly identifiable as a runaway slave. He had to accept that his chance of leaving Alexandria was minuscule. And even if, against every odd, he succeeded in reaching Ostia, what then? Where should he go, a suspected murderer? He had no reason to believe that he would be cleared of that crime in his absence or that there would be any way of safely contacting Titus Cassius, who might be able to help him, or Junius, who he hoped had been to Tibur by now and secured whatever it was that Quintus Aelius had left for him. He would not be able to return to Rome. His inheritance, including the villa at Tibur would be worthless to him, and no doubt already claimed by Camilla. Tears filled his eyes as realisation dawned that there was no reason for him to leave Alexandria and risk imprisonment and death by returning to Rome or its vicinity. Perhaps travelling to a strange country and a new city was not the worst thing that could happen to him. Tiro would be there at least. The alternative was death, and Formosus was still very young. It is hard for the young to give up any hope of salvation in life. There is always another time to die.

Fomosus lay down on his bed and rolled onto his side, burying his head in his pillow. Events had been moving so fast, there had been so many new things to digest that he hadn't really had time to reflect. Perhaps that was a good thing, because the moment he allowed himself to dwell on Quintus Aelius, the master he considered long dead, he thought his heart would break. He wondered how he had managed to survive so long without the man he loved. He missed his voice, the touch of his hand, the familiar foot fall when he came home after a morning at the Senate, his rare laugh and the feeling of his lips on his own. Formosus regretted all the time he had spent doubting Quintus Aelius, imagining the Senator had willingly handed him over to Nero in exchange for a position in the Senate and thinking that his master would tire of him as soon as he got older. They had never talked, to be fair Formosus had never tried but he had always been wary of his master's impatience and tendency to shout at Formosus when he considered he was being contrary. But those instances were few and far between because mostly, Formosus realised, he had been treated with the utmost kindness and affection by a man to whom showing his feelings did not come easily.  
But his master's behaviour had been strange, Formosus realised, in the last few weeks before his death. He had made his will and had been distracted, and Formosus had put it down to the fact that Quintus Aelius was tiring of him. He tried to cast his mind back to the events leading up to the Senator's death. He had not, it dawned on him suddenly, been able to keep tabs on his master as he usually did, following him around the house, insisting that he accompany him on errands and visits, because he had been forced to pose for the awful statue. Formosus sat up. Yes, his master had dearly wanted that statue, but he had chosen that precise moment to realise his project because it would occupy Formosus and make him unable to keep a constant eye on the senator. The timing had been deliberate, Formosus fumed, Quintus Aelius had wanted his devoted, watchful slave and lover out of the way while he concocted something that had ultimately led to his death. Formosus cursed himself for being so easily duped. No doubt the senator had fooled himself into believing that he was protecting Formosus from whatever dangerous enterprise he had embarked on, but that had shown itself to be a mistake. Whatever Quintus Aelius had been trying to hide from his slave, it had been something he knew Formosus would disapprove of and probably try to stop him from doing. Stubborn fool, Formosus thought angrily, and he realised that, for the first time since his master's death, he had felt anger rather than sorrow when thinking of the other man. Perhaps his heart was beginning to bid farewell to the man who had occupied it for so long.  
There was a knock on the door, and Formosus jumped. People didn't usually knock on his door, he was a commodity, not a human. Tiro appeared, he looked a little nervous, shy even as he entered and sat down on the only chair in the room.  
“I wanted to talk to you about our journey,” he began tentatively. Formosus blinked and sat up.

“What is there to talk about” he asked quietly, “Master orders, I obey, it is that simple.”

“It will be good for you to be outside in the world again,” Tiro continued as if he had not spoken, “you are young, you will see new countries and see new people. It is not healthy for you to be cooped up all day in the palace.” Formosus shrugged.

“I didn't realise that was of any interest,” he said bitterly, “I am just a porne, something to use.”

“Not to me,” Tiro answered. Formosus looked up.

“But what am I to you?” he asked. Tiro's dark eyes clouded over.

“I think the Prince is feeling something for you that he long thought dead,” Tiro continued, “I think he feels a certain affection for you that he never felt for the other boys. He knows you are different, you have more to offer.” Formosus snorted.

“I am older and have had an education, not like those children who were snatched from their parents. That is the only difference. What do they know of the world? What conversation could they possibly have apart from talking about one another, and their looks? They are inexperienced children, that is why they have nothing to offer but their bodies.” Formosus looked away. He could feel his temper rising, and he had to take a moment to control it. Quintus Aelius had sometimes shouted back at Formosus when he lost his temper, sometimes he had cajoled him and sometimes sent him to his room like a wayward child. The thought of Quintus Aelius wagging his finger at him and frowning made Formosus smile. He thought of the hours the Senator had spent reading Greek with him, explaining Stoic philosophy to him and teaching him to ride and to use a sword. How could he ever have doubted the man.

“You are right of course,” Tiro answered, “then I suppose we must be indebted to those who taught you so thoroughly. You are thinking of them?”

“I always think of him,” Formosus said sadly.

*

Tiro left the room quietly. It was always on the tip of his tongue to tell the Celt that he reminded him unbearably of the one he had lost. When Formosus displayed traits that were so alien to the other boy's character it left Tiro feeling bereaved, because he realised that Formosus was not the one Tiro imagined he resembled so closely, but a stranger, a completely different person who in truth bore no more than a passing similarity to that other boy. But Formosus was older, a fully grown man, and Tiro could still fantasise that this was the man the other boy might have become if he had had the chance to grow to adulthood.

Nodding to the guards, Tiro stepped up to the doors of Prince Shapur's private chambers and knocked gently. There was no answer, so Tiro entered quietly. The Prince was asleep, lying sprawled on his side, the damaged part of his face hidden, pressed against the pillow. Tiro could almost imagine that they were back in the palace in Susa, and none of the tragic events that had culminated in the blow to the Prince's face that had almost cost him his life had ever happened. The Prince had never been an easy person to get along with, and although Tiro felt an almost fatherly affection for his master he would be the first to acknowledge that the Prince was a spoiled, selfish and sometimes very cruel person. But perhaps that would change. Formosus was the first person since the attack that the Prince had seemed concerned about. He had been affected by his beauty, that was nothing new. All the boys were beautiful in their way. But he had been touched by Formosus' pity, by his lack of fear and his gentle ways. When Tiro had told him that the slave had a horror of being bound and had been drugged so that he could tolerate it, the Prince had immediately ordered Tiro never to bind him again. That was unexpected, Formosus was only a slave and whether or not slaves had feelings had never been of interest to the Prince before. Now the Prince wanted the Celt to travel with them. It seemed he was forming a genuine attachment to Formosus. How long it would last, Tiro had no idea, presumably it would fade when the slave's beauty faded, but it was a start. Perhaps his master would not only recover from the physical injuries he had suffered, but also from those wounds inflicted on his soul when his own father, the Satrap of Susa, had cleaved open his son's face in a fit of rage. And when he did tire of Formosus, Tiro had his own ideas about what would be done with the slave.  
*

Proteus' back smarted. He had never been whipped before, and all because of that huge Celtic animal that everyone was so besotted with, even the other boys. Proteus' couldn't see it himself. The man was a tall, lumbering beast, all long legs and big eyes, like the golden horses of the Scythians. No wonder that Scythian guard was so smitten with the Celt, he had seen him staring at the slave; the Celt looked like one of those beasts the Scythians rode to war with his mop of golden-brown hair, thick as a horse's mane, and his pale golden skin. He wasn't a proper bed slave, the pornai were soft, effeminate boys like he himself, with long, silky hair and soft skin because they didn't spend all day outside like the Celt, running and wrestling. Proteus hated the newcomer with a vengeance.

He looked around the room. The one they called Kallias wasn't there, of course. He was always doing something on his own, sucking up to Tiro, no doubt, or insisting on going outside or monopolising the Prince's time. Before the Celt had arrived Proteus had been the favourite, the one most often called to the Prince's bed, sometimes the Prince would even take the time to talk to Proteus a little. Proteus always made sure to stand on the Prince's good side, he didn't like to see the damaged half of his face and hated it when his master removed the golden mask. None of the boys could stand to see the scar on their master's face, that was only natural. And that had changed, too. Instead of crowding around Proteus to hear about his beating they were carefully keeping their distance, and Proteus could sense an air of disapproval amongst the other boys. Obviously Kallias had done a good job of discrediting him during his absence. But he would teach the Celt a lesson before long. It was just a pity that his plan to frighten and spoil the Celt by leaving him to the disgusting Egyptian to dispose of had not worked out. If Unnufer had ravaged the slave, his master would have discarded him immediately. It had been a good plan, and he owed that little creep Bandak for alerting the Prince and Tiro to what was happening. It would be easy to deal with that snivelling little wretch, but first he had to get rid of the one they called Kallias.  
*

“Are you in love with him?” Narses demanded, plumping down on the bench next to Tiro. The other man looked up, puzzlement in his eyes.

“In love with whom?” he asked.

“With Kallias,” Narses replied impatiently, “who else? Your eyes never leave him, you sneak around outside his bedroom like a love-sick water nymph.” Tiro smiled at the comparison.

“I have never stopped loving her,” Tiro answered sadly.

“She has been dead ten years at least,” Narses frowned, “you must stop pining for her.” Tiro just smiled helplessly. “What is it with the Celt, then?”

“Master likes him, I haven't seen him react to another in quite that way for a long time.” Tiro turned to look at Narses. “The scar doesn't worry him in the least.”

“Who knows what horrors he has seen,” Narses said darkly, “the Romans were far from merciful in Britannia from what one hears, and the Britons are a fierce and cruel people. I have heard terrible stories of what they do to their foes.”

“He seems gentle enough,” Tiro frowned.

“He has a temper,” Narses warned, “there is another side to this Celt. But I was just trying to explain why our Master's disfigurement is perhaps less alarming to him than to those other boys who have lived sheltered lives.”

“Perhaps.” Tiro smiled. “He lectured me on education this morning. He told me that the reason that he is different to the other boys is because he is educated and they are not.” Narses threw his head back and laughed.

“He is presumptuous,” Narses giggled, “he certainly makes a change from those cowlike pornai we are used to. He flies into a rage every time I call him porne, so I do it to annoy him. He dislikes and distrusts me, perhaps he is right to. He is the only one of the pornai I find truly beautiful, he is like the statue at the Temple of Adonis in Athens that the women worship and sow herbs for.” Narses stopped and looked closely at the other man.

“He is not like Humayak,” Narses said, “not at all.” Tiro jumped.

“Then how do you know...” Tiro broke off.

“I know you,” Narses said, “and Humayak would be about his age today. And there is look about him I imagine reminds you of the boy.” Narses paused. “I am right, am I not? You like him because he reminds you of Humayak.”

“You know me well, old friend.” Tiro hung his head and refused to meet the other man's eyes.

*

“I see you had a visitor,” Titus Cassius smiled as a slightly dishevelled Junius came in from the garden.

“I don't know why you told him to come,” Junius complained, pushing his hair out of his eyes, “his behaviour was most improper.”

“Really?” Titus Cassius teased, “then I suppose I will have to tell him off.” Junius frowned.

“ I hope you are not trying to get rid of me,” he pouted. Titus Cassius laughed.

“You stupid boy,” he chided, “did I not adopt you? You are my family now and my heir, I could not get rid of you if I tried. I thought you might like a companion closer to your own age, you must miss Formosus.”

“I do miss Formosus,” Junius paused, “but he didn't kiss me or grope my chest muscles.” Titus Cassius grinned.

“Formosus was too busy kissing and groping Quintus Aelius no doubt,” Titus Cassius answered and then immediately regretted it.

“Speaking of whom,” Junius said, inserting himself in the space between Titus Cassius and the door making a tactical retreat impossible, “you dropped a hint that the latter is still alive. Illuminate, please.”

“I said no such thing,” Titus Cassius backpedalled.

“No, but you implied as much,” Junius replied smugly.

“I'm not supposed to tell anyone,” Titus Cassius whined.

“I'm not anyone, and you don't have to tell me. Just confirm that he is alive and on his way to save Formosus.” Junius looked at his master intently. Titus Cassius nodded.

“Yes and yes,” he confirmed, “but we must not speak of this. But I will tell you again that you must not worry about Formosus. Help is on its way.”

“On the subject of Formosus,” Junius cleared his throat, “I have a little confession to make. You will find out anyway as soon as Italus has arrived back from Tibur, which should be soon.” Titus Cassius rolled his eyes.

“What have you done now?” he groaned with an air of exasperation, “out with it. Another jealous husband to deal with?” Junius laughed briefly.

“No, nothing like that. But you recall that I told you about the Greek slave who helped Formosus?”

“The one belonging to that asinus Titianus Priscus, what of him?” Titus Cassius asked.

“The very one,” Junius confirmed. “Well, I couldn't just leave him to fend for himself, so I told him he could stay at Quintus Aelius' villa in Tibur. That's where he is now. I promised I would come for him as I assumed we would be going after Formosus. Now we are under house arrest and also are not required to save Formosus, the poor fellow is stranded at the villa and I do not know what to do about it.” Junius squirmed. “He has been a faithful and brave friend to both Formosus and myself, he cannot go back to his master, who he hates.”

“I see,” Titus Cassius said thoughtfully, “well, he can't stay at the villa indefinitely because at some point, either Camilla or some other party will be sure to visit the place, either with a view to selling it or to take a holiday there. He can't come to Rome, Titianus Priscus is far too well known, as is his slave, he would be recognised and sent back to his master immediately. It is a difficult situation but I think I have an idea. We will have to wait a day, perhaps two until Emperor Vespasian has returned, the messengers say he cannot be more than a day's ride from Rome. When he comes back he will deal with the unrest in the city and we will no doubt be free to move around once again. He will stop this madness, no doubt about it at all.”

“And then?” Junius prompted.

“And then I will pay Camilla a visit,” Titus Cassius smiled, “you have heard that she is expecting?”

“How should I have heard that?” Junius responded irritably, “holed up as I was first in Ostia, then in Tibur? She is pregnant with Quintus Aelius' child?”

“So she says,” Titus Aelius answered, “but I am not so sure. A very well-built young centurion has been seen visiting the house, ostensibly to talk about the murder of Camilla's husband, but sometimes he stayed until it was nearly dawn. Armed with that information I am sure that I can persuade Camilla to leave the villa to me, seeing as legally, the villa does not belong to her anyway until Formosus' case has been decided, which cannot happen until he returns to Rome, preferably accompanied by the murder victim himself.”

“And when you have control of the villa?” Junius asked.

“Then we will send Italus to tell your Greek friend that he is to mind the villa until its rightful owner returns, and to tell anyone who passes by that he is my slave and overseeing the villa on my orders.”

“I see, thank you Master,” Junius said reverently.

“You might get used to calling me by my name,” Titus Cassius slapped the young man on the back, “but now I think a small repast might be in order. All these complications have made me rather peckish.” Titus Cassius rubbed his protruding belly and smiled.


	30. Chapter 30

“Someone,” Acilius Aviola said in a low voice, “is plotting to kill the Emperor. Someone from his innermost circle.”

“You are sure?” Quintus Aelius was dubious, the Emperor was considered to be a good ruler and most of the Romans were relieved that their fate was in steady hands after Nero's excesses and the upheaval of the Year of the four Emperors.

“Absolutely,” the old man replied, “the Frumentarii have unshakable evidence, but they could not ascertain who exactly is at the centre of the conspiracy.” Quintus Aelius sighed. If the Frumentarii, the Roman secret police, were sure of their information, there was no need to doubt it. They were ruthless, efficient and absolutely loyal to their Emperor. “We need someone who the Emperor can trust, but who is also trusted by all others in his circle whatever their politics and aims, to infiltrate this conspiracy. Of course I immediately thought of you. You integrity is valued by all.” Quintus Aelius' heart sank, this was a mission that could all too easily end in death as he well knew; lives were cheap when absolute power was at stake. The Senator was still young, only thirty-two, and he realised with a jolt that he had everything to live for. He was rich and respected, he wanted to witness the birth of his own son and heir and above all, he wanted to share his life, preferably until they both reached a ripe old age, with the man he loved, his slave who was in reality so much more than just a spoil of war to him.

“Thank you,” Quintus Aelius responded dully, “of course you can count on me.”

*

“You are deep in thought, Senator?” Marcus said respectfully. Since they had arrived in Alexandria his companion had softened slightly in his stance and was less abrasive and dismissive than he had been at the beginning of their journey. But Quintus Aelius like his slave Formosus was very taciturn, frequently lost in thought and he preferred to communicate via a series of grunts which reminded Marcus very much of Formosus. He wondered whether Formosus had learned to imitate his master's behaviour, or whether the Senator had perhaps copied his beloved slave's mannerisms. Most likely they were both that way by nature and and consequently a perfect match. Certainly no

one could doubt their fierce affection for one another. Marcus had been able to study both of them closely and had come to the conclusion that nothing could stand in the way of this couple's powerful attraction for one another. He sighed. He wished he could have a relationship of his own. After spending some time in the Senator's company, Marcus had no further wish to interfere with the slave he loved so deeply. He would probably pay for the attempt with his life anyway. Quintus Aelius grunted.

“Did you speak?” he asked the young sculptor.

“I was remarking that you seemed lost in thought, Senator,” Marcus answered carefully.

“Yes, I was,” Quintus Aelius replied, “I am poor company for a young man such as yourself, although Formosus never seemed to mind.”

“Not at all,” Marcus answered, “and Formosus seems to be much the same.” The Senator smiled, his dark eyes drifting back into thought. He was a breathtakingly handsome man, Marcus thought, an ideal mate for Formosus, and if he ever got back to Rome in one piece he would ask the Senator if he could craft a statue of him as a companion to the statue of Formosus he fully intended to finish. They would make a beautiful pair.

Quintus Aelius had rented a villa in the Greek quarter for them, complete with a staff of servants and slaves. Marcus was sure that the Senator would have been just as comfortable in a hut or a tent, but he explained that he wished to be able to move in the right social environment. Formosus would be in the house of a rich man, they needed access into the homes and spheres of Alexandria's wealthiest inhabitants. Marcus could not see how they would possibly be able to find Formosus in the huge, bustling city, but the Senator seemed to have no doubts of his success. When he wasn't out, making new acquaintances to extract information from, he was sitting in the garden, staring out to sea and thinking.  
*

Formosus couldn't help thinking that this was different. They were in the red room, his master was inside him, gently pumping, spooning behind him as they both lay on their sides, lifting Formosus' leg for better access and peppering the back of his neck with affectionate kisses. Formosus hated the gentleness, it reminded him of Quintus Aelius and brought him to the verge of tears. But his master was oblivious, he was crooning softly into Formosus' ear, words he was glad he could not understand, and interspersing the words with kisses, soft kisses to the back of his neck while he gently moved in and out of the slave.

When he was finished he used his hand to make Formosus come and turned on his side facing him with one arm slung across the slave's stomach.  
“Tomorrow morning,” the prince said sleepily, “I don't want you to be gone when I wake up. I want you to stay.”

“Yes, Master,” Formosus answered in a whisper, but his heart sank within his chest.

So the next morning when Narses woke Formosus from a fitful sleep with a sharp tug on his shoulder, Formosus shook his head and mouthed the words: “Master told me to stay” at the surprised eunuch, who hastily retreated out of the door to scurry down the corridor and tell Tiro of this remarkable development.  
*

Iason heard horses being rode up to the villa, through the gate and into the stables, and then the murmur of men's voices come closer to the door. When it was apparent that the owners of the voices were intent on entering the villa, Iason turned and fled to the slave's quarters and hid himself in one of the rooms. Quintus Aelius treated his slaves well, the rooms were light and airy and well-furnished, the bed-linen in the room Iason had fled to was clean and fresh. Iason had kept the door of the villa locked and the key in his pocket, but he could hear a key turn in the lock. Whoever the intruders were, they seemed to be entering the villa legitimately. Iason could hear men's voices, there was laughter and shouting, Iason guessed there must be about eight to ten of them and they seemed to be in high spirits. The tone of the voices was not rough or harsh, but jovial and companionable; these were not thieves or slave hunters, but presumably noblemen, perhaps some acquaintances of Quintus Aelius. Probably they had not heard of his death, and were travelling to Rome from the Provinces. Iason decided to lay low and wait. He hoped that the travellers did not have slaves with them who might come to the slave quarters and discover him.

But when Iason heard the faint clank of weapons and armour being unbuckled and laid down, he realised they must be soldiers, on their way back to Rome from the Provinces. He knew that several of the Emperor's cohorts were engaged in battle with the Jews in Judea; perhaps for some reason they had not come back through the Port of Ostia, but by way of the Port of Aternum, further to the North, the port he himself hoped to reach to return to Greece. Or they were returning from being stationed in the northern Provinces in Britannia, Gaul or Germania, both was possible.  
After a while the sound of laughter and song wafted into Iason's hiding place and he supposed that the soldiers, whoever they were, had either availed themselves of Quintus Aelius wine cellar, or had brought their own supply. Iason was hungry and thirsty, he hoped that the intruders would go to bed at some point so that he could sneak out and get himself something to eat and drink.  
The noise died down and eventually quiet reigned over the villa. Iason opened the door and listened; he could hear nothing but the sound of snoring coming from several of the guest bedrooms. He sneaked down the corridor and towards the kitchen. He had been right, armour and weapons leant haphazardly against the walls, there was no guard so obviously the intruders felt safe. Shielding the little oil lamp he had brought with him with his hand to prevent it from shedding too much light, Iason looked around. Several paludamenti, the cloaks worn over the armour by the high-ranking army officers, were slung over the chairs in the kitchen. One of them caught Iason's eye. It was a deep purple, a purple Iason had only ever seen one person wear. It was a colour he knew was extracted by crushing ten thousands of shells, and was so expensive and costly that only one person in Rome ever wore clothing coloured with this Tyrian purple dye. Even if perhaps one or two others had the means to pay for this precious commodity, it was forbidden for Romans to wear purple. Because the only Roman who ever wore purple was the Emperor himself.  
*

“You have no proof,” Camilla said, cupping her stomach although there was not the slightest swell visible. Titus Cassius thought ruefully that he looked more pregnant than Titus Aelius' wife.

“I have witnesses, willing to testify,” he answered smoothly.

“Slaves, tradesmen,” Camilla sneered, “who would take their word against the word of a Roman noblewoman?”

“A soldier, one of the Praetorian Guard no less,” Titus Cassius answered casually, “among others. You have not been very discreet I am afraid.” Camilla burst into tears.

“I implore you, Senator,” she sobbed, “the child belongs to Quintus Aelius, my beloved deceased husband. The centurion has been keeping a lonely and frightened woman company, protecting her against the terrors of the dark.”

“But of course,” Titus Cassius soothed, “by the way, what will become of my dear friend's villa, the one he bequeathed to Formosus?” Camilla frowned.

“The villa? I don't know. I don't care for the countryside. When they have decided what to do about that idiot slave of my husband's, who has disappeared it seems, and it falls to me, I shall sell it I suppose.” Camilla tossed her carefully coiffed dark curls, her tearfulness magically disappeared.

“You might leave it to me to manage,” Titus Cassius suggested, “until you are free to sell it, then I would be happy to buy the villa I spent so many happy hours at with your husband.” Camilla looked up sharply.

“Oh it's like that, is it?” she snapped, “well, it is of no matter to me, you can have it if you want it; I don't. The Senator never took me there, he would only ever let that pretty fool Formosus accompany him when he travelled to Tibur. And you, of course.” She paused. For a split second Titus Cassius caught a glimpse of her heart, full of disappointment that the man she had married, who at one point she must truly have fallen in love with, was not able to love her back because his heart belonged to another. “I don't even have the key, so I can't give it to you,” she continued.

“I have a key,” Titus Cassius explained.

“As soon as the villa is mine I shall want money,” she cautioned.

“Money is no problem,” Titus Cassius reassured her, getting to his feet. “And if you have need of anything please do not hesitate to notify me, you are the wife of my dearest friend after all.” Camilla laughed bitterly.

“I was never his wife,” she barked, “he never loved anyone but his slave, Formosus.”

*

“What did he say?” Narses pounced on Formosus the instant he entered the door to the bathing chambers.

“Who?” Formosus responded bad-temperedly. He hadn't slept well and he was irritable as a consequence. Narses stamped a foot impatiently.

“Master, of course, the Prince,” he snapped.

“I think he said where is my breakfast?”, Formosus answered in a sarcastic tone of voice and proceeded to get into the warm bath water of his own accord.

“Idiot!” Narses administered a sharp slap to Formosus' buttock before he could sit down. “He has never wanted a slave to stay in his bed until morning.” Formosus grunted, snatching the washcloth from Narses hand and roughly washing himself. He was tired and unsettled, and Narses' excitement made him even uneasier. He didn't want his master to feel anything for him, he had no use for the affection of others and even Tiro's obvious partiality towards him was more of a burden than a boon. “You hair,” Narses said, grabbing a handful and pulling Formosus' head back sharply. Formosus smiled. At least Narses seemed to feel no affection towards him. After drying him off, Narses then inspected Formosus' body, putting a soothing lotion on his entrance and then grabbing his testicles before Formosus could protest, rolling them between his fingers.

“He let you come,” Narses said thoughtfully. Formosus grunted. He did not like talking about his intimate body functions, and certainly not in the cold and calculating way that Narses did.

“Yes,” Formosus answered grudgingly.

“Most unusual,” Narses gloated. Then he smacked Formosus on the flank. “Run along, then, you look tired. You can find your own way to your room I dare say.”

“Where's Tiro?” Formosus asked, feeling disappointed that the older man was not there despite himself.

“He is busy packing,” Narses explained, “for the trip to Susa. The Prince hasn't been there since...” he stopped himself. “Neither of them have been there for many years. Tiro must plan the journey well.” Narses smiled. “I hear you will be going, too.”

“So Master says,” Formosus answered sullenly.

“That is an honour,” Narses said. Formosus looked up.

“You will be staying here?” he asked carefully.

“Someone must take care of things here,” Narses chuckled, “surely you will not miss me?”

“I wanted to ask a favour of you,” Formosus cleared his throat. Narses frowned.

“What favour could I possibly do for you?”

“Would you,” Formosus took a deep breath, “keep an especial eye on Bandak? He is a kind and gentle boy and I think that he is lonely. Perhaps you could give him something to do, or talk to him, and make sure that no harm comes to him.” Narses didn't speak for a moment. When he did, his voice was soft.

“You are a strange creature, Celt,” he said, “it must have been difficult to swallow the enormous pride you have to ask that of me. I know you dislike me, I don't blame you for that. Yes, I will do as you ask. Of course it is one of my many duties to keep an eye on all the boys, but I will look out for your little friend. I will also make sure that Proteus doesn't harm him, he knows that Bandak saved you from the Egyptian. I will find some little tasks to keep him occupied so he does not pine for you. Do not fret.” Narses turned away abruptly and started cursing one of the hapless slaves who had accidentally poured hot water over his feet. Formosus slipped out of the door quietly.

*

“I met a rich Egyptian merchant today,” Quintus Aelius told Marcus, “A most distasteful character, but fantastically wealthy and he knows everyone in Alexandria with money and status. This is a relationship I would like to cultivate, although I find the man deeply repellent. He is the type of man who would think nothing of killing a slave.” Marcus looked up at the Senator. The man's tone of voice betrayed an emotionality Marcus had not realised he possessed. He was afraid, that was obvious, and Marcus pitied him.

“The slave trader's servant said the man who bought Formosus was not an Egyptian,” he reminded the older man, “and he said that he was soft-spoken and gentle. I am sure he is safe somewhere, Senator.”

“You are right, of course,” Quintus Aelius sighed, “and the Egyptian has never been to Rome and speaks no Latin so I am worrying unduly.”

“We will find him,” Marcus said, “I am sure of it.”

Despondently, Quintus Aelius paced the room. He looked pale and tired. Since they had come to Alexandria he had spent every day trekking the Greek quarter, looking for clues and the evenings socialising, hoping for a hint or a comment that might lead him to Formosus. So far he had heard nothing.

“If the truth be told,” he said, closing his eyes, “I am at a loss as what to do next.”

“With all respect, Senator,” Marcus answered gently, “perhaps you are not asking the right questions.”

“What do you mean?” Quintus Aelius opened one eye.

“I know you a little,” Marcus replied carefully, “and you are very reserved. I imagine you are even more so with strangers. Why don't you let it be known that you are interested in male beauty? Put it around that you are looking to purchase a slave, an unusual item, perhaps one from farther afield. Ask who has exceptionally good-looking slaves who might want to sell or at least direct you to a good slave trader. What have you got to lose, Senator?” Quintus Aelius looked at him and smiled.

“I believe you are right, I will try that.” he laughed briefly. “When we get back to Rome I must make sure your father is compensated for the absence of his son for so many weeks.” Marcus returned the smile.

“No doubt he is beside himself with worry, not knowing where I am.”

“He knows where you are,” For a very brief moment an almost mischievous look crossed Quintus Aelius' face. “I had messenger sent from Rome to tell him you would be going on an educational trip to Alexandria to study your art at the great Library there. I had Titus Cassius sign it. Your father will not question the word of such a rich and respected nobleman. Tomorrow I will take you to visit the Library so that at least on that count I will not have lied to him.”

“You are too kind,” Marcus looked at his feet. “I swear I did not betray Formosus to the slave trader,” he said, “I was angry and disappointed that he rejected me, but I did not purposely lead them to him.”

“All right,” Quintus Aelius wiped a hand over his face, there were shadows under his eyes and his mouth was tight with worry, “we will speak of this another time. It pains me too much to think of what he went through. I must close my eyes for a moment, I am exhausted.” Marcus watched the Senator sleep fitfully, sitting in the chair by the window, and his heart bled to see the proud and energetic Roman on the edge of despair.


	31. Chapter 31

“Ave!” Aulus Tarquinius pushed past the slave who had opened the door and enveloped Junius in a bear hug.  
“What are you doing here?” Junius scolded, pleased despite himself although he made a great show of shaking the other man off. “Shouldn't you be protecting the city or guarding the gate or whatever it is that you Praetorian Guards do, instead of flouncing around me?”

“I'm off duty,” Aulus grinned, “but don't flatter yourself. I have information for your paterfamilias, if you would be so kind as to announce my presence to him.” Junius raised an eyebrow and hurried off to find Titus Cassius. Since neither of them had been able to leave the house, the Praetorian guard had been an invaluable source of information. Nothing seemed to escape his attentive ears and eyes.

Titus Cassius was in his private study, poring over accounts. Unlike Formosus who had always taken great pride in his ability to keep his master's books, Junius had absolutely no interest in numbers and accounting, and Titus Cassius had given up trying to teach him fairly early on. Junius cleared his throat loudly.  
“What is it, Junius?” Titus Cassius sighed, looking up, “can't it wait?”

“The guard is here,” Junius responded, he would never call Aulus Tarquinius by name on principle, “he says he has information for you, Titus Cassius.”

“Ah, very well, that is different,” Titus Cassius smiled, “take him into the main tablinum and give him something to drink, I will be along very soon.” Junius scowled. As he walked along the passage he imitated Titus Cassius' words under his breath.

“I swear he prefers that big-footed fool to me,” he muttered to himself, “he would never leave his accounts if I told him I had information for him. It's always: What is it now, Junius? Is it really important? Can't it wait?” Sullenly Junius stomped into the atrium where the Guard was waiting. “You're to come into the tablinum,” he said grudgingly, “Titus Cassius will be along presently.”

“Are you sulking because I didn't come to see you?” Aulus Tarquinius made a grab at Junius which the Celt dodged.

“Certainly not,” Junius lied and went off to find a kitchen slave he could bully into serving something to drink.

A messenger from the Emperor arrived early this morning,” Aulus Tarquinius was telling Titus Cassius as Junius entered the tablinum, the living room used for receiving guests, “the Emperor and his men apparently spent the night in Tibur and are expected back in Rome this evening. The news is as yet known only to a few of the Emperor's inner circle, his return should come as a nasty shock to some and we don't want them to bolt.” Junius swallowed.  
“They stayed at Tibur, you say?” he asked.

“Yes, strangely enough they stayed at the villa of your paterfamilias' poor friend, Senator Quintus Aelius Aurelius. Perhaps they did not know that he has died, it seems rather irreverent otherwise.”

“Perhaps they know more than you do,” Junius snapped, suddenly worried about Iason.

“Junius,” Titus Cassius cautioned, “where are your manners?”

“Gone to the Circus to watch the games,” Junius mumbled under his breath, but fortunately Titus Cassius did not hear him as he had directed his attention back to the guard.

“So he will be on his way back to Rome at this very moment?” Titus Cassius asked.

“He will,” Aulus confirmed, “he was delayed on his way back from the Port of Aternum, but I believe he now has some information that he was desirous of obtaining. I think there will be some interesting developments in the next few days, and of course you will soon be free to leave the house.”

“You are sure that the Emperor and his men stayed at Quintus Aelius' villa in Tibur?” Junius interrupted nervously. Titus Cassius frowned, then realisation dawned.

“I am sure there is nothing to worry about, Junius,” he said reassuringly.

“The Emperor is nearly in Rome, what could possibly happen to stop him?” Aulus smiled at Junius, misunderstanding the other man's disquiet.

“Something always seems to go wrong,” Junius remarked darkly.

*

Formosus was bored. Bandak was endearing, but he missed Tiro, unwilling as he was to admit it. He wished he could go outside and run, but there was no one to ask for permission. He was cooped up with the other boys in a room with perfumed air and soft cushions which was not at all to Formosus' taste. Worst of all, he had to tolerate Proteus dirty looks and occasional snide remarks which were beginning to get on his nerves. Narses occasionally looked in on them but Formosus' pleas to be let outside fell on deaf ears. Everyone was busy, there was no one to take him, he should be glad that he didn't have to do the packing himself. Proteus sniggered to hear Narses scolding Formosus, but was soon silenced by a threatening look from the small, slender man. Proteus was obviously wary of getting on Narses' bad side. Formosus sighed. It was like being in a room full of adolescents. Well, they were hardly older than that, Formosus decided. They made him feel ancient.

When Priamos wasn't eating, he was staring at Formosus, who found the boy's attention unsettling. He noticed that Priamos' looks made Bandak creep closer to him and rest a possessive hand on his thigh. When the door opened the next time, Formosus hoped it was to let him out of the room before it all drove him crazy. It was Narses.  
“You, Kallias,” he said abruptly, “come with me.” Formosus nearly fell over his feet in his eagerness to get out of the room. “That bad?” Narses asked with a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Worse,” Formosus answered, trotting after Narses and looking around in surprise when they did not enter the bathroom. “Where are we going?”

“In here.” Narses grabbed Formosus' wrist and pulled him towards a door which was duly held open by a guard. It was a small room with a couch and chairs, and clothes were draped over the furniture. “I'm not sure I have found anything suitable,” Narses muttered, “you are thin, but you are very tall. This might do.” He held up a tunica and shook it out. “Well?” he snapped irritably, “what are you waiting for? Bend down, or must I get a step ladder?”

“I don't understand,” Formosus stuttered in confusion.

“We must put some clothes on you,” Narses replied impatiently waving the tunica, “you can't go and help Tiro pack if you are not dressed.”

“I'm to help Tiro pack?” Formosus could not believe his luck.

“It's what you want, isn't it, stupid child? You have been complaining that you are bored and that Tiro is not around all morning.” Narses glowered at him. Formosus quickly bent his head so that Narses could put the tunica on him.

“Yes, of course,” Formosus smiled, “thank you.”

“It's a little short,” Narses looked at Formosus critically, grabbing some underwear and thrusting it into Formosus' hand, “put this on.” Formosus hurriedly pulled on the garment. “You'll do,” Narses nodded. “Now, come with me.”

Formosus followed Narses down the labyrinthine corridors of the palace, up a wide, marble staircase to a second floor he had never seen before.  
“These are the Prince's private chambers,” Narses explained, “he will be out all day, I am not sure if he would approve of you being here.” Narses swept into a room with double doors spread wide open, the only guards had been stationed to the left and the right of the wide staircase, apparently there were none on the first floor. Tiro was in the room, which was huge and probably richly furnished, only the furniture was hardly visible under swathes of clothes piled on top of it, and a mass of packing cases. When they approached, Tiro looked up.

“There you are,” he smiled at Formosus, “I could use some help, and you are bored, so I have heard. Can you fold clothing?”

“I used to attend to my master's,” Formosus corrected himself, “my late master's clothes, I know how to fold and how to pack. He showed me.”

“Don't think you can escape,” Narses called back over his shoulder in parting, “the whole palace is heavily guarded, even if the apartment isn't.” Formosus huffed.

“Just when I was beginning to like him,” he grumbled.

“Fold these,” Tiro ordered, “and put them in the packing case.” They worked silently for a while, then Tiro said: “Have you given up trying to escape? You seem more resigned to your fate recently.” Formosus dropped the garment he was folding and stared at Tiro.  
“What makes you think I have been trying to escape?” He asked in shock. Tiro laughed.

“I have come to know you quite well, Formosus.” Tiro looked over at the other man. “You are very clever, and you can be quite manipulative if you can be bothered, which you usually can't. You used your charms to good effect on the Scythian guard as soon as you realised that he was attracted to you. You used his attraction to you to win the wrestling match, too.”

“He let me win,” Formosus growled, annoyed that he had been so transparent.

“You think he might let you go,” Tiro continued, “or turn a blind eye if you tried to get away. I'm not sure that you are right.”

“I have nothing to go back to Rome for,” Formosus retorted angrily, “the man I loved is dead. I was very nearly arrested for his murder, although I wasn't even in the house. Why would I return, just to be wrongfully charged with murder?”

“I don't know,” Tiro admitted, “but I do know that you were frantic in the beginning. You wanted to return at all costs.”

“I've change my mind,” Formosus answered sullenly.

They worked in silence for a while, the fact that Tiro had seen through him easily rankled. After Formosus had sulked for a few minutes, his curiosity got the better of him. He was alone with Tiro, not even the guards were near. Who knew if he would ever get another chance to talk openly with the other man.  
“Who is it I remind you of, Tiro?” he asked bluntly. Tiro smiled.

“It doesn't matter, he's dead,” he answered.

“It matters to me,” Formosus persevered.

“A boy, he died many years ago, still a child,” Tiro answered, “he would have been about your age now if he had lived.”

“What was he to you?” Formosus lowered his voice. He could sense that Tiro was affected by speaking of the boy he had lost. But Tiro shook his head.

“It is no matter,” he said, “in truth you are not like him, you do not resemble him, but sometimes, when you challenge me like that, and sometimes when you are so quiet and lost in thought, I think of who he might have been, and that he might have been a little like you.” It was on the tip of Formosus' tongue to ask if Tiro would have wanted to see the boy he had lost a slave to a rich man's sexual whims, but he swallowed the retort, and Tiro was apparently too overcome with memories to speak.

After his first avenue had led to nothing, Formosus tried a different tack to satisfy his curiosity about the strange inhabitants of the palace.  
“How did the Prince get the scar in on his face? Was it in battle?” he questioned Tiro who smiled at Formosus.

“You are taking the opportunity to get all your questions answered, Formosus,” he said, “no, it was not in battle. The Prince's father is the Satrap of Susa, you would probably call him a king although he too is a subject of the King of Kings, who rules the whole of Parthia. He always had a hot temper, he is an unpredictable and irascible man who turns his wrath on friend and foe alike. He slashed his son's face, I am not sure whether by accident because he stepped forward to protect another, or whether it was on purpose. It is not for me to judge.” Formosus stopped folding the garment he held and stared at Tiro.

“His own father did that?” Formosus shook his head. “Poor Prince. Who was he protecting?” Tiro turned away and began to stack things into one of the cases. Formosus thought at first that he wouldn't answer at all, but eventually he spoke. Tiro's voice was hoarse when he uttered the single word: “Me.”

*

Narses' jaw dropped when he saw the Roman who was following the Prince into the palace. He had to be the most handsome man he had ever seen. He was tall with broad shoulders and not an ounce of fat on his athletic body. Just because Narses was incapable of sexual attraction did not meant that he was not a good judge of beauty, in fact he was convinced that he was better qualified to perceive beauty than those who let their urges get in the way of their judgement.

His jaw had not only dropped because the Prince's companion was so handsome, but because the Prince had a companion at all. He was not given to socialising and he was deeply distrustful of the Romans, who constantly sent troops against Parthia and who he disliked because they were known to ridicule physical shortcomings. But this Roman oozed gravitas, the Roman concept of dignity and authority. Prince Shapur had taken his guest into one of the sitting rooms, and had sent for Narses to attend to them.  
“Narses, send the slaves for some wine for my guest and myself, and then I have a small task for you,” the Prince told him, leaving him to scurry off and order the slaves to bring wine and sweet cakes for the Prince and his guest, all the while wondering what task would be asked of him. While the Prince regularly entertained guests at parties, he rarely brought anyone home. Narses supposed that the two of them had some business to discuss, he knew that the Prince occasionally traded with rare artefacts, but the Roman did not look in the least bit like a dealer of any kind. Unnufer looked like a trader, but not this man. Narses hurried back, followed by the slaves with wine and cake, and watched them serve.

“Narses,” the Prince said after he and his guest had exchanged some pleasantries, “are the pornai in their living room?” Narses saw the Roman wince at the word which he found odd.  
“Yes, Master, they are,” Narses answered.

“My guest would like to see them, he is looking to buy his own and heard that I have the most beautiful slaves in Alexandria.” The half of the Prince's mouth visible under the golden mask smiled. The Roman looked very grave and Narses couldn't help wondering about the dark-haired, dark-eyed man who seemed to have a secret sorrow.

“I would be very grateful, Prince Shapur,” the Roman said in a deep, smooth voice that made Narses' stomach feel warm, “I am a stranger to Alexandria and am curious about the customs here.”

“It will be a pleasure to show a Roman Senator how we live in Alexandria,” the Prince answered politely. Narses led the way, a few steps ahead so that he could warn the boys to be on their best behaviour.

Six pairs of eyes widened, not only to see their Master in their midst, something that very rarely happened, but also a stranger, a Roman by his dress, and a very handsome one. But the Roman was disappointed, Narses could tell by the droop of his shoulders and the line that appeared between his nose and his mouth. He listened politely as the Prince told him the name and origin of each of the slave boys. He turned to Narses.  
“Where is Kallias?” Narses swallowed. He had been expecting that question.

“He was bored,” Narses answered with some trepidation, “so I sent him to help Tiro pack.” The Prince frowned. Then something astonishing happened. Prince Shapur laughed. It was a sound Narses hadn't heard for a long while.

“Instead of enjoying a life of luxury like these other boys,” he chuckled, “Kallias is bored and wants to work. Well, that is amusing.”

“Shall I fetch him, Prince?” Narses asked.

“Not on my account,” the Roman intervened, “I have seen your very beautiful slave boys and I thank you for your time and trouble. I hope you will be my guest soon, but I must depart. I brought a young companion from Rome with me and I do not want to leave him alone in a strange city for so long. He is a very talented young artist, and I promised to take him to the library today.” He and the Roman exchanged a few more polite formalities, then the handsome stranger left, leaving Narses to wonder why such an obviously wealthy and attractive stranger should have such an air of deep sadness around him.

*

Disheartened, Quintus went back to the villa to take Marcus to the library. When the disreputable but fantastically rich Egyptian merchant Unnufer had introduced him to Prince Shapur, the son of the Satrap of Susa, whose face had been mysteriously disfigured, his heart had missed a beat. Unnufer had told him that the Prince had a collection of male slaves for his bed, all of them very attractive. This was just the sort of man with the money and the appetite to have bought a slave like Formosus, so Quintus had though with some excitement. Apart from that, Unnufer had told him that the Prince's councillor travelled extensively and had recently brought back a slave from abroad. But when Quintus saw the Prince's slave boys he knew that he had come to the wrong place. Prince Shapur had a taste for soft, effeminate and very young boys who Quintus would be more inclined to pat on the head and send back to their mother than to bed. The fact that he hadn't seen them all was of no importance. A man had his preferences, and Prince Shapur obviously conformed to the Greek ideal of the male lover as a young and adolescent boy. He would not be interested in a slave of Formosus' type. Another dead end in the search for Formosus, and Quintus felt defeated after his hopes had first been raised. He would take Marcus to the library and try to forget his latest failure.


	32. Chapter 32

“Look here,” Quintus Aelius unrolled one of the scrolls, “these are detailed drawings of the Athena statue by Pheidias of Athens, it is said that they are his own sketches.”  
“Remarkable!” Marcus could hardly tear his eyes away from the wonders revealed in the scrolls that had been rolled out in front of him. Quintus Aelius left him to pore over their contents, and wandered though the rooms of the library, the hushed voices and rustle of parchment being unfurled and rolled up again was soothing to his nerves. When Marcus had seen his fill he would tell him where he had been that morning, perhaps that would help allay the strange feeling haunting him since he had left the Prince's palace that he had somehow missed or overlooked an important detail somewhere.

The Prince, like so many Parthians, idealised the Greek way of living, apparent also in his choice of very young and immature-looking bed companions. He would not be interested in a slave of Formosus' type, anyway. Formosus was twenty-four, far older than a slave would normally be in that role. Quintus had seen the Prince's slaves and they were obviously all of that type. He would meet the Prince again no doubt, perhaps there was some information to be gained by talking to him. He was obviously a recluse, but he knew everyone of importance in Alexandria. Quintus would have to be quick though, the Prince had told him that he would be travelling to Susa soon, perhaps for good. Quintus knew why; the Prince's father, the Satrap of Susa, was on his death-bed and Prince Shapur was his heir.  
Quintus knew of the Satrap of Susa by reputation, even in Rome his evil disposition and foul temper were the subject of much discussion, and he had heard rumours that the Satrap had maimed and nearly killed his own son. Apparently the rumours had been correct for once. The Prince was obviously a spoiled, stubborn, emotionally stunted and perhaps even dangerous man as far as Quintus had been able to assess his character in the short time they had spent together, but he was also well-educated, reflective and probably a loyal and brave companion. The slaves had looked well-treated, even pampered, and the eunuch who, was apparently one of his trusted advisors, seemed to be very much attached to the Prince. Like the Stoic philosopher Seneca who he very much admired, Quintus Aelius was a great believer in treating slaves and servants decently and was convinced that it reflected on a man's character. So on the surface of it, there was nothing further to hold Quintus' attention, but something did. He couldn't shake the feeling there was a detail that he had encountered during his visit with the Prince that he should have noticed, but didn't.  
*

Iason had just laid his hands on a skin of wine and a large lump of bread when he heard a noise in the corridor, and then the sound of bare feet approaching. He scuttled into the pantry and pulled the door shut behind him until it was ajar. Through the tiny slit he could see two men enter the kitchen and hear the sounds of beakers being filled.

“You should sleep,” one of the men said, “it will be one last, long ride to Rome.”

“We both should,” the other man agreed, “perhaps a little more wine will dull my senses.”

“You are worried,” the first man said, “you have no reason to be. We will have the situation under control immediately. The Praetorian Guard have handled the unrest admirably and are already alerted that you will arrive tomorrow.”

“The conspirators have been very clever,” the second man mused, “creating a distraction by tricking the mob into believing that there is an uprising of Celtic slaves to contend with. No doubt they intend to step in as saviours and install one of their own as Emperor in my place.”

“Occasio furem facit,” the first man answered, “opportunity makes a thief. We will nip this conspiracy in the bud.”

“Eprius Marcellus and Caecina Alienus, conspiring to displace and then kill me, I would never have guessed it. I trusted both of them.” The second speaker sighed.

“But you trust Quintus Aelius Aurelius more,” the first man rejoined, “he risked his life to find out who is at the heart of the conspiracy.”

“He risked his life,” he second man agreed, “he also risked and forfeited his favourite slave and companion, despite his careful planning.”

“He will find him again,” the first man said, “perhaps he already has. I am sure you will find a way of recompensing him for his trouble.” There was the sound of beakers of wine being drained and placed on the table.

“Certainly,” the first man answered, and there was the sound of chairs scraping over the floor as he and his companion got up, “he deserves to be made Censor at least. We should leave his house in order when we go tomorrow, his pantry is nearly bare, we will transfer our provisions to him, as we will not need them any more and he won't come back to a bare cupboard.” Steps approached the pantry and the door was swung open. A strong, stocky man still in his soldier's gear stood in front of Iason. “Well, what have we here? A voice boomed, “are you a thief, or one of Quintus' slaves, hiding in terror from us? Out you come, let us have a look at you.” And Iason felt himself dragged out of his hiding place by one arm.

*

“Master returned early,” Narses announced, making Formosus jump, “but he has left again to look at a shipment of statues from Africa.” Tiro turned.

“Did he ask after Formosus?”

“Yes, he did,” Narses answered.

“Was he displeased that Formosus is helping me pack?” Tiro asked.

“No,” Narses sounded bemused, “he laughed. He found it amusing that a slave would want to work rather than live a life of luxury. But you have missed something, both of you.” Formosus turned to look at Narses.

“What could I have missed, apart from a morning of boredom watching Proteus scowl at me and Priamos eating grapes as if his life depended on it?”

“You missed the great novelty of the Prince bringing home a guest,” Narses smirked.

“No doubt some lech like the disgusting Egyptian I had the misfortune to encounter,” Formosus growled. Tiro held up his hand.

“Be still, Formosus, if letting you help me has the effect of you behaving like a naughty child and speaking out of turn I will have to let you languish with the other boys in future.” Tiro looked at Formosus sternly, who reddened and snapped his mouth shut. He disliked being reprimanded, and had always sulked when Quintus Aelius had told him off, to the Roman's obvious amusement.

“Let him be,” Narses said unexpectedly, “he is very always very forward with me, I am used to it.”

“You say the Prince brought a guest? Why did you not call me? As his chief advisor and councillor I should have been present.” Tiro sounded annoyed.

“I would have,” Narses explained, “but the guest left very soon afterwards. They took some wine and then went to look at the pornai. Apparently our Master's guest had heard that the Prince has an impressive collection and is desirous of purchasing his own. It was a pity that you were not there, Kallias. The Prince asked where you were, but the visitor was in a hurry and had to leave. You missed something, I must say.”

Formosus opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again, with a black look in Tiro's direction.

“Who was he?” Tiro asked, “a fellow Parthian? He must have been someone of note for the Prince to entertain him. Tell us, Narses, I can see that you can hardly contain yourself.”

“A Roman Senator, no less!” Narses burst out, “and if that in itself were not news enough, the best looking man I have seen for many years,” Narses glanced at Formosus, “excepting yourself of course, Kallias.”

“A Roman Senator?” Formosus could not stop himself from speaking although Tiro's reprimand still smarted, “what was his name? I might know him, my Master,” he stopped himself. “My late Master was a Senator. I believe I know all his Consenatores, what was his name?” Narses raised an eyebrow.

“I was not formally introduced to him,” he answered, “but I can tell you that he was handsome. Very handsome. Almost as tall as you are, Kallias, but manlier and I would say a few years older. But still a very young and virile man, indeed I did not know that Senators were so youthful. Dark, curly hair, dark eyes, broad shoulders, the bearing of a soldier. If you know all the Senators you will be bound to recognise him by my description. There cannot be another Senator in Rome to rival him in looks, or youth.”

“You sound like a maiden,” Tiro smiled, gently making fun of his friend, “I do believe you have fallen in love with a Roman.” He shook his head. “This is strange indeed. The Prince has no affection for the Romans and their way of life, and their constant wars with us do not make us very inclined to seek out their company. The Roman Senator must be an unusually charming companion.” He turned to Formosus. “You are very quiet, are you still angry that I reprimanded you? Come, tell us: Who is this paragon of male beauty?” But Formosus' eyes were closed and his head had fallen back as he slid from his seat on one of the couches onto the floor, apparently unconscious.

*

“Such an unbelievable wealth of wisdom,” Marcus enthused, “the instructions and sketches I saw will be extremely helpful to me. I managed to copy some of them, wait until my father sees them.” Quintus smiled.

“I am glad you found our trip to the library rewarding, it is indeed the greatest wonder of the entire Roman Empire, a collection of all the wisdom known to the civilised world. I am sure that long after we are dead people will come here to learn and educate themselves and others. It survived the fire during the siege of Alexandria and will no doubt survive for many more centuries.”

“I would like to go there again, if that is possible,” Marcus continued.

“That will certainly be possible,” Quintus Aelius agreed, “I am not leaving here without Formosus.”

“You got no further this morning?” Marcus inquired, “did the Egyptian merchant you so dislike not introduce you to some interesting leads?”

“A moment of your time, Marcus,” the Senator said, gesturing towards the chairs near the window. “You have given me good advice before, I would like to tell you what I did this morning and perhaps you can tell me why I feel so uneasy.”

“I am honoured by your trust in my abilities,” Marcus answered, “what happened this morning?” Quintus Aelius settled in his chair, and poured wine for both of them.

“The Egyptian introduced me to a Parthian Prince,” the Senator explained, “who he was in conversation with about some statues he had imported from Africa. Apparently the Prince collects artefacts from all corners of the world. But that is not all he collects. He is a great emulator of Greek life in more ways than one. He has a taste for boys, and has a collection of particularly beautiful male slaves. I took your advice and said I was looking to buy my own slave, and he offered to show me his. He seems to be a lonely man, I had heard of him, he has lived in Alexandria since a rift with his father, the Satrap of Susa, drove him away from Parthia.”

“What is he like?” Marcus asked curiously, “I have never seen a Parthian Prince.”

“He is a few years older than I am,” the Senator explained, “and would probably be a fine-looking man, but for the fact that one side of his face is scarred from top to bottom, and he wears a golden mask to conceal it.” Marcus shuddered in distaste.

“That is horrible,” he commented.

“Especially as rumour has it that his own father inflicted this on him,” Quintus Aelius continued. “He is very much aware of this blemish, and was quite wary of me at first. But he seems to live a quite solitary life and I think he was quite happy to show off his beautiful palace and his boys. At first I thought I had found Formosus, it seemed quite the place he might end up. But I was wrong.”

“How so?” Marcus asked.

“He showed me his concubini, and they were all simpering little boys, far younger than Formosus, soft and childlike. Erastomenes after the Greek fashion. Formosus would hardly be one of them. I was so disappointed when I saw them that I left immediately.” the Senator sipped his wine slowly. “But now I can't help feeling that I missed a lead, a cue if you will.”

“Did you see all of his slaves?” Marcus asked, “and even if you saw the slaves he beds, Formosus could have been bought for his ability to speak Latin and Greek perfectly, or for his many other talents. He could have been bought as a teacher, or a companion.” The Senator laughed.

“I know that Formosus' talents and virtues far outweigh his looks, but a slave trader would see his beauty and sell him for that. You know yourself that he is irresistible.”

“Then if he is irresistible, which I concede, what would stop even a man who usually has taste for little boys from wanting him?” Marcus asked.

“I suppose you might be right,” Quintus Aelius said slowly, “and no, I did not see all the slaves. One of the concubini was not present. But his name was not Formosus.”

“The slave-trader's servant said that he guessed that the man who bought Fomosus was Parthian or Persian, certainly not Egyptian or Greek. Even if the Prince does not own Formosus, he might know a compatriot who does. You should invite him to dinner,” Marcus suggested.

“He will be leaving for Susa in a few days,” the Senator answered, “his father is dying and he is the heir to the throne. You are right, those were the servant's exact words.”

“It would be a coincidence if the slave you had missed were Formosus,” Marcus said, “do you remember anything else that was said? Any detail you might have overlooked?”

“The Prince laughed when he heard that the slave was not present. Apparently he was helping to pack for the journey as he was bored.” Quintus scratched his head. “I am sure Formosus would rather pack than idle the day away with a roomful of boys, but he would not be the only one.”

“But the slave was named, and his name was not Formosus,” Marcus prompted.

“No, it was not, but then it is not uncommon to give a new slave a new name,” Quintus Aelius said, “I did so myself. Formosus is not his real name, it is Elisedd, but at the time we could not communicate well enough for me to ask him. Formosus was the first word I heard him speak, and he seemed to like the name.”

“So we are left with nothing,” Marcus sighed, “I think though that you should certainly try to talk to the Prince again before he leaves for Susa.” Quintus Aelius sat with his head in both hands and did not answer. Then he looked up.

“I remember,” he said, staring at Marcus, “the name of the slave who was absent. And it is that which has been unsettling me I think. It was Kallias. The Parthians have a taste for Greek customs and the Greek language, and they dislike the Romans. If I were to translate Formosus into Greek, what word would I have?” Marcus froze and stared at the Senator. He spoke and understood Greek perfectly as he had studied his art in Athens.

“Kallias,” Marcus answered, “ the beautiful one. Formosus.”

*

Formosus opened his eyes. His head hurt and his hands and feet were icy cold. Tiro was bending over him solicitously, one of his cool, impersonal hands was travelling over his body, the other was on his forehead.

“Poor Formosus,” he said, “at last you are awake. Are you in pain? If you were one of those jumpy little boys I would be inclined to think you were suffering from some nervous disorder, but you have such a stable and strong nature I can only assume that you are ill.”

“I don't remember what happened,” Formosus slurred.

“You fainted,” Tiro explained, “Narses and I carried you to your bed. He thinks you are over-excited because of the journey, but you are hardly the type. I am afraid that you must be seriously ill.”

“I can't think,” Formosus croaked, his thought processes seemed to have slowed down to a crawl and he blinked and looked around. He was in his own room and in his own bed, and for the life of him he could not remember where he had been before that. Trying to think was like groping in the darkness for some unknown object that was probably not even there.

“Drink this,” Tiro held a cup to his lips, “perhaps you are dehydrated. It is very hot today, and you must always be sure to drink enough.” Formosus drank. Then he fell back onto the pillow.

“Where was I?” he asked.

“You can't remember,” Tiro said as if to himself, “it is as if you experienced a terrible shock. All the symptoms are there. But nothing happened.” He cleared his throat and looked at Formosus. “We were packing,” he said gently, “for the trip to Susa. Narses came and told us that the Prince had been there and had brought a visitor.” The memory suddenly came flooding back to Formosus. Narses had described the visitor, a Roman Senator. Formosus knew all the Senators, and he knew that, as long as the Emperor was not in Rome, the Senate would not appoint a new one to take Quintus' place. None of the Senators fitted the description Narses had given. Quintus Aelius was by far the youngest patrician on whom that honour had been bestowed, which was the reason that Formosus had always suspected Quintus had been given the appointment by Nero as compensation for using him. He knew now that wasn't true, but the fact remained; no other Senator was as young or as stunningly handsome as Quintus Aelius. But he was dead, and Formosus could make neither head nor tail of it all.

*

"Where are you going?" The sixteen-year-old with his long coltish legs was nearly as tall as Quintus Aelius, and was blocking the door.

"Meeting some Senators," the Roman answered, smoothing his toga, "I won't be late. Go to bed and wait for me." The boy pouted.

"What will you be doing?" he demanded.

"Drinking wine, eating, talking," Quintus Aelius explained patiently, "socialising. I might be made Senator at some point myself, and it is important to cultivate my connections to these people."

"Senators are old men," Formosus said, wrinkling his nose, you're not."

"But I will be eventually," Quintus Aelius smiled, "now don't be a child, let me through."

“Take me with you!” Formosus insisted. Quintus Aelius sighed. He had done so in the past, and Formosus had sat on the floor next to him, one arm around his leg, a head resting on his thigh, and he had seen the amused looks of the senators and knew they would be talking about his soft-heartedness behind his back. It was not fitting for a Roman, especially a patrician, to be overly sentimental about anything or anyone, and Quintus Aelius did not want to be ridiculed by his compatriots.

Now the campaign in Britannia was over he was bored. He had liked being a soldier, the physical exercise, the easy companionship with the other men across the borders of social class, although he abhorred the cruelty he had seen on both sides. Quintus' family was one of the oldest and most distinguished in Rome, his father had been senator before him but had never risen to higher offices because he was perceived as being too soft due to an unembarrassedly loving relationship with his wife. The two of them held hands and kissed unabashedly in public, asked each other's opinions constantly and spent all their spare time together. A man like that was not considered the right material for the office of censor or consul.  
Quintus Aelius was not content with doing nothing and then becoming a Senator at fifty years of age just because of his family name. He was ambitious and longed to be at the seat of power. He disliked Nero, as did most of the patricians because he had been eroding their rights since he became Emperor, but most of all he hated him for his cruelty and excesses. That didn't stop him from working for the Emperor though, and he was often sent on missions as his bravery in difficult situations was well known and admired. Quintus Aelius was not about to let his soft heart get in the way of his ambition.  
“I can't take you, Formosus,” he sighed, “go to bed and I will be there presently I promise.”  
“Will you be going to the brothel?” Formosus demanded. Quintus Aelius rolled his eyes. He had been to the brothel with other men before he had brought back Formosus, but never since. Apart from the fact that he had no urge to do so, having the Celt as his slave had made him strangely aware of the injustice of using another human for gratification who had no say in the matter.

“I never go the brothel,” the Roman growled, “why should I? I have you.” He meant it as a reassurance, but he could see by the darkening of his eyes that Formosus had taken the remark the wrong way.

“I am not a whore!” he protested, “why are you comparing me to a whore?” Quintus was well aware that he should just leave, but he didn't have the heart.

“That was not my intention,” the young Roman answered, “you are my concubinus and I have no desire to share the bed with anyone else.” Except perhaps with a future wife who will bear me a son, Quintus added privately, that was something he was not foolish enough to spring on Formosus at that moment. He was only a slave after all, Quintus tried to tell himself.

“Then stay here.” Formosus had resorted to pleading.

“I want to become Senator some day, preferably before I reach dotage,” Quintus Aelius said firmly, “and to do this I need to cultivate the acquaintance of the other Senators. Now step aside or I will use force.” Sullenly Formosus turned and walked down the corridor. Quintus could feel anger at the youth's contrariness boil up inside him. “Come back here at once, Formosus!” He shouted at the retreating figure. He watched the slave falter, then hesitate. He did not dare to openly defy his master, although Quintus could see that he was teetering on the edge of disobedience. Formosus turned and Quintus could see that he was crying. He immediately softened and held out his arms.

“You have nothing to fear,” he said as the youth rushed into his arms, I love you, he didn't say. It would never do for a future Senator to be in thrall to his own slave.

*

“I made so many mistakes,” Quintus Aelius said, more to himself than to Marcus, “even if Formosus can find it in his heart to forgive me, I wonder if I can ever forgive myself.”


	33. Chapter 33

Formosus was pacing to and fro in his room, unable to contain his impatience. The Prince hadn't sent for him that evening, either because he was otherwise engaged or because Tiro had told him that Formosus had fainted. He didn't feel faint at all now, he felt frantic. He had to know more about the Roman visitor, but Narses was busy and unwilling to spend his time talking to Formosus, and Tiro had forbade him to leave his room in case he fainted again, so he couldn't ask the other slaves for details about the man. But he was sure, he was absolutely positive that he must have missed Quintus Aelius by mere seconds. A mixture of doubt and anger churned inside him. He hadn't actually seen his master's dead body, he had been too overcome with grief, and the idiotic sculptor, who had been instrumental in so many of the disasters that had befallen him, had whisked him away before he had a chance to think straight. True, the whole of Rome believed the Senator dead, neither Junius nor Titus Cassius would have been capable or willing to dupe him if they had known that Quintus Aelius was still alive. The only solution then was that the Senator had fooled them all. But why? And why had he not confided in Formosus? If indeed the visitor really had been Quintus Aelius.  
The Celt sat down heavily on his bed. He hardly dared to hope that his master, the man who he had believed to be dead, was actually here in Alexandria looking for him and that was why he had been in the Prince's palace. There had to be an explanation for such a strange coincidence. If of course the mysterious visitor really had been Quintus Aelius. Perhaps the man was an imposter pretending to be a senator, a confidence trickster trying to gain the Prince's trust by posing as a Roman dignitary. But if that were his aim, why pose as a Roman, a people the Parthians disliked and mistrusted on principle? It made no sense. The only sense any of this made would be if the Roman was indeed his master who was looking for him. Formosus tried to push the thought away. There was no use in getting his hopes up before he was sure. If they were dashed to the ground again he was sure that he would die.  
*

“I'm absolutely certain,” Quintus Aelius kept saying while he paced back and forth in the room making Marcus feel dizzy, “this Kallias must be Formosus. I can't believe I was so close to finding him.”

“If Kallias is indeed Formosus,” Marcus interrupted the other man's constant stream of muttering, “then Providence prevented you from meeting. What exactly did you think would have happened if you had seen one another and the Prince had realised that you know one another? Do you think he will just give Formosus to you?”

“I will buy him,” Quintus Aelius explained, “money is no issue.”

“Your money is in Rome,” Marcus argued.

“I can borrow any sum I need from a money lender,” Quintus Aelius retorted, “I am a Roman senator.”

“What if the Prince won't sell him?” Marcus asked, “he might like him. I don't think money holds any great attraction for a Parthian Prince, soon to be Satrap of Susa, but a handsome Celtic slave might.” Quintus Aelius kicked one of the chairs in passing irritably.

“You are right,” he answered grudgingly, “well then I shall have to use stealth.”

“You intend to break into a heavily guarded palace and steal Formosus from a man with his own private army?” Marcus asked sarcastically.

“The Prince will be travelling to Susa soon,” Quintus Aelius said, “I am sure that the palace will be less heavily guarded in his absence.”

“Are you?” Marcus queried, “didn't you say he is going to Susa to succeed his ailing father as Satrap? Why would he not take his slaves with him? What if he takes Formosus?”

“You are making my head hurt, Marcus,” the Senator complained but he knew the sculptor was right. It was almost impossible to retrieve Formosus from the clutches of his new master. For the hundredth time Quintus Aelius cursed his own stupidity in being unable to foresee the dire straits in which his faked death would leave his poor, beloved Formosus.

*

“Get back into bed!” Tiro scolded, “what is the matter with you? You look as if you are running a fever!”Formosus dodged the hand to his forehead and continued to pace.

“I can't sit down,” he complained, “I need to get out of here. Let me join the other boys.”

“Now I know there is something wrong with you,” Tiro muttered, “you never want to spend time with the others if you can avoid it.”

“I swear I am not ill,” Formosus argued, “I am bored. I need to get out of my room.” Tiro shook his head in dispair.

“If it will help you out of this strange mood you are in,” he relented, “I will take you to the others.” He opened the door and led Formosus down the corridor to the slave boys' room. “Have fun watching Priamos eat grapes and Proteus glare at you,” he said as he let Formosus into the room.

*

I thought you were ill,” Bandak greeted Formosus when he sat down heavily next to him on a couch in a quiet corner out of the way of the others who were occupied with eating, in Priamos' case, sleeping, in India's case and with one another, in the case of the brothers Castor and Pollux. None of them were paying attention to the conversation, and all of them were out of earshot.

“I'm fine,” Formosus growled, “tell me about the Roman who came here today.”

“You missed him,” Bandak said unnecessarily, “he was very handsome. Proteus was quite smitten.” Formosus looked over his shoulder at Proteus, who was scowling back at him.

“Describe him,” Formosus demanded.

“Well he was very tall, nearly as tall as you are,” Bandak proceeded with relish, glad to have something to occupy the Celt's attention, “and perhaps thirty or thereabouts, younger than the Prince. I don't know why he wanted to see us, we weren't told, but I heard from one of the guards that he is a Roman Senator. A very handsome man, broad shouldered, with dark, curly hair, short the way the Romans wear it, and very dark eyes. He wore a toga after the Roman fashion, but unadorned, and he stood very straight, the guard said that he used to be a soldier and that is why held himself so proudly. What else? He wore sandals, and his skin was very smooth and tanned, but he was far lighter skinned than a Parthian. I thought Roman Senators were old men.”

“Anything else?” Formosus asked, grabbing Bandak by the shoulder, “anything at all! Try to remember.” Bandak closed his eyes.

“I'm trying,” he said, then he opened them again. “Why are you so interested? You are never like this usually. Perhaps you really are ill. Narses said you had fainted.” Formosus looked at Bandak, then he shook his head, debating with himself.

“Can I trust you?” he asked, lowering his voice.

“You know you can,” Bandak answered, “I am your friend, I told you so.”

“I think,” Formosus said quietly, “I believe that the Roman who was here is the man who was my master in Rome.” Bandak frowned at him.

“The one you are still pining for?” he asked, “you said that he was dead.”

“So I believed,” Formosus answered, “but it can only be him. Is there nothing else you remember? It really is important.”

“Do you think he has come to fetch you?” Bandak asked excitedly, “will you take me with you when you leave? He will have to steal you, the Prince will never let you go.”

“I don't know if it is him, or if he has come to fetch me,” Formosus said impatiently.

“One more thing,” Bandak said, “it is probably not important, but it seemed strange. He wore a golden chain with a key around his neck.” Formosus smiled, then he laughed. Then he slapped Bandak on the back so hard the poor boy nearly fell off the couch.

“Thank you,” Formosus said, “you have made me very happy.” Neither Formosus nor Bandak had noticed that their conversation had been overheard. Creeping closer and closer and crouching until he was on the floor, hidden behind the couch was Proteus, and he looked nearly as elated as Formosus himself.

*

“I sent the Prince an invitation to dinner, and he accepted,” Quintus told Marcus, “and to make it less conspicuous I invited several other guests, among them two of the best Egyptian sculptors in Alexandria. The Prince is interested in art, you are my talented protegé, and so I had the pefect pretext for inviting him. Apart from that I am sure it will be very interesting for you to talk to the Egyptians.”

“Wonderful”, Marcus enthused, “I shall be delighted to make their acquaintance. And of course it will be a perfect opportunity for you to get to know the Prince better and perhaps be invited back to his palace before he leaves for Susa.”

“A pity we have so little time,” Quintus said worriedly, “I don't know what I shall do if I can't rescue Formosus before they leave.”

“Of course it is possible that he won't be taking Formosus with him,” Marcus frowned, “maybe he will send for his slaves later on after all.”

“We don't know,” Quintus admitted, “but we can't risk it. I don't think he would leave Formosus behind. Apart from the fact that he is too valuable to be let out of one's sight, he is also not a docile little boy. I am sure that the Prince is aware that Formosus might try to escape, if he were left without adequate surveillance. He can also be quite persuasive. If he hadn't been with me of his own free will I certainly wouldn't have trusted him not to try to escape.”

“No,” Marcus agreed, thinking of Formosus' stubborn pig-headedness and single-mindedness, “I dare say that is more likely.”

*

Formosus sat on his bed, debating with himself. He didn't like to be dishonest, but he couldn't see another chance to get what he wanted. He went to the door, opened it and poked his head out.

“Atheas,” he smiled at the Scythian guard standing watch outside his room, “doesn't it bore you to keep watch in front of my door all day?” Atheas shrugged and smiled.

“When I lived in Scythia,” he said, “I helped my father on the land. It was cold for much of the year, and the soil was bad. Work was hard and we were often hungry. I much prefer to stand outside your door and be fed regularly than to live in the starving village that I come from.” The guard nodded affably at Formosus.

“You could come into my room,” Formosus said, “and we could talk properly. Surely you can guard me from the inside of the room just as well as from the outside.”

“I am not allowed to enter your room, you know that,” the Scythian answered.

“No one would have to know,” Formosus whispered, drawing closer to the other man, but Atheas laughed.

“Tiro patrols the corridors at all times of day and night,” he answered, “he would know. And he often stops in front of your door. I overheard Narses say to him that he likes you because you remind him of his son.”

“His son?” Formosus' jaw dropped in surprise.

“Yes, his son, who is dead. The Satrap, father of our master, killed him in a fit of rage, and killed Tiro's wife, too. He would have killed Tiro as well but our master shielded him and took the blow himself. At least, that is what the other guards say.”

“But why? Why did the Satrap kill Tiro's family?” Formosus asked. The Scythian shrugged.

“That I do not know,” he answered, “I was not in the Prince's employment at that time.” You let yourself be too easily distracted, Formosus heard Quintus' voice in his head. Making his voice as silky and seductive as he could, he lay a hand on the Sycthian guard's arm and put his mouth close to the other man's ear.

“Just come into my room for a minute,” he urged, “please.” The Scythian smiled, and stroked Formosus' cheek.

“You are beautiful, Celt, and I know you realise that I am quite in love with you. But I cannot have you. I don't know what it is you want me to do, but you can't seduce me into disobeying the Prince.” Atheas let his hand drop and gave Formosus a sad smile.

“Atheas, please,” Formosus begged, realising that there was no use in pretending any more, “let me go. I must go, there is someone in Alexandria that I must see.” But the Scythian shook his head sadly.

“No, Formosus,” he replied, “I would lose my job and maybe my life if I let you escape. Forget this foolishness. You are well looked after here. There are people who care about you here. Go to bed, Formosus, and get over this madness. We will speak of it no longer and I will tell no one. But please, do not persist in this or I will call Tiro.” Sighing, Formosus went back into his room, closing the door quietly. Tiro had been right, Atheas had been a false hope, a dead end.

*

Marcus was astonished that the Senator was such an excellent host. The usually taciturn and morose Roman was witty, charming and engaging. He could speak just as competently about politics as he could about horses, warfare and art. While Marcus debated the merits of marble from Carrara with his Egyptian colleagues, Quintus Aelius was busy enchanting the Prince with his conversation and his knowledge of Parthian art.

The Senator had employed several attractive young boys to serve the food, and he watched the Prince's eyes on them.  
“Nice looking servants,” the Prince remarked. This was the opening that Quintus had been hoping for.

“Indeed,” he agreed, “but hardly as attractive as your slave boys.”

“Yes,” the Prince preened, “they are very beautiful. Such a pity that you didn't see Kallias.”

“Kallias?” Quintus Aelius asked casually, “he must be beautiful with a name like that.”

“Oh, he is,” the Prince smiled, “but he is different, he is not like the other pornai. He is older than they.”

“Older?” the Senator queried, his heart beating in his throat, “I thought you had a taste for young boys, after the Greek fashion.”

“I do,” the Prince confirmed, “but Kallias is an exception. He is special.”

“Such a pity I missed him,” Quintus said carefully, “but I had an appointment.”

“Your young charge, I know,” the Prince nodded, “but perhaps you will see Kallias yet. I am inviting some of my acquaintances to a dinner before I leave to Susa, I would be delighted if you would come. You are welcome to bring your very talented young friend of course.”

“We would be honoured,” the Senator smiled, “most honoured.”

*

“Formosus,” Tiro closed the door behind himself and sat down next to the Celt on the bed, “what is the matter with you? Just a few days ago you seemed quite content with your life. Now you are fretful and agitated. What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” Formosus growled, turning away, “nothing at all.” Tiro laughed.

“You are the worst actor I have ever encountered,” he said. Formosus turned to glare at him. Quintus Aelius had said that same thing to him every time he had tried to hide his feelings. Formosus thought for a moment. He had got nowhere being careful. He decided to try a direct approach.

“You like me,” he stated bluntly, “because I remind you of your son.” Tiro started.

“Yes,” he agreed after a while, “you do. He died when he was barely fourteen though.”

“You miss him,” Formosus continued, “it is hard to say goodbye to someone you love.”

“Very hard,” Tiro agreed, “are you trying to tell me that you cannot forget the Roman master who you loved and lost?”

“The Senator who was here,” Formosus persisted, wondering if this was all a big mistake, “I think that was him. I think he has come here to find me.” Tiro frowned.

“Formosus, you didn't even see him,” Tiro soothed, “if someone you love dies, you imagine you hear the beloved voice in every sound, and see the beloved face around every corner. These are tricks our mind plays on us, cruel tricks because we cannot let go. There are thousands of Romans, many of them young and handsome.” Formosus leapt to his feet.

“But how many of them are Senators?” he insisted, “I know them all. They are all older men. Quintus Aelius was the only young man among them.”

“Then I suppose they appointed a new one to take his place,” Tiro reasoned.

“The Emperor is in Judea,” Formosus said impatiently, “they would not appoint a new Senator when he is not present. Find out what the Roman's name was, please.”

“And if he is your dead master, against all odds, what then, Formosus? Do you think the Prince will let you go?”

“He can sell me, I am sure Quintus Aelius would pay any price!” Formosus clenched his fists in frustration.

“The Prince will not sell you at any price,” Tiro said slowly, “at least not in the next ten years.”

“What do you mean?” Formosus asked.

“He is fond of you, as far as he can be,” Tiro said slowly, “he means to keep you.”

“Talk to him,” Formosus pleaded, “he listens to you. Tell him he must sell me.” Tiro looked at Formosus and his face was sad.

“He doesn't listen to me,” Tiro replied. Then he fell silent. After a while he added quietly, “and me, what about me, Formosus? Do I mean nothing to you?” Formosus felt his eyes prick.

“You mean a lot to me, Tiro,” he answered quietly, “but I love him more. If indeed he is still alive. Please, Tiro, find out for me. Ask the Prince what his name is.” Tiro reached out to stroke Formosus' arm, the familiar little gesture of affection that made Formosus' stomach clench with pity for the other man.

“You know I am duty bound to tell the Prince about this conversation?” Tiro asked.

“I don't care if you do,” Formosus answered, “but I know you won't. Please, find out the Roman's name, I beg you!”

“If I must,” Tiro said, “if I must.”

*

“Well?” Marcus asked when the last of their guests had departed.

“We are invited to the Prince's house,” Quintus smiled, “in two days time. The Prince told me that the slaves would be present.”

“You will have to warn Formosus somehow,” Marcus said, “If he sees you unawares he is bound to be shocked. Someone will notice that he knows you.”

“I will have to risk that,” Quintus shrugged.

“And how are you going to get Formosus out of the palace?” Marcus insisted.

“I don't know yet,” Quintus replied, “I will think of something.”

“The palace is heavily guarded,” Marcus cautioned.

“If Kallias is indeed Formosus,” Quintus answered, “then I will find a way. I will find a way to free him.”

*

“The Prince has invited some guests to dinner,” Tiro told Formosus as they walked down the corridor to the bathroom, “you and the other slaves will be present and serve sweetmeats between the courses.” Formosus frowned.

“Will the Egyptian merchant be there?” he grumbled.

“Yes,” Tiro confirmed, “but he won't hurt you. He won't get near you. But there is something else.”

“What else? I promise to behave,” Formosus growled.

“No, another guest. The Roman senator will be attending.” Tiro looked at Formosus sharply. “You will not do anything rash if he turns out to be your last master, or I will have the guards on you.”

“Do you know his name?” Formosus asked, his heart in his throat.

“Quintus Aelius Aurelius,” Tiro answered, “apparently he is from a very old and noble Roman family. Was that your master's name?” Formosus scratched his head.

“Well that is strange,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Tiro asked.

“I thought I knew all the Roman senators,” Formosus explained, “but I have never heard that name ever before.”


	34. Chapter 34

Quintus saw him immediately. The room they were ushered into was enormous, guests were talking, lying on lecti, walking together and eating, in between them were beautiful male and female slaves, completely naked, serving fruit, wine and sweet cakes. Formosus was standing in a corner with a large bowl of fruit in his hands, not making the slightest attempt to offer it to any of the guests, and wearing an expression of supreme boredom. Quintus could hardly suppress the feeling of joy and elation that coursed through him at the sight of the man he had missed so sorely. Formosus looked well, his hair was longer than he usually wore it, and he had obviously had the opportunity to run and wrestle because he seemed to have a little more mass to his body than Quintus remembered, but as Formosus had always been rather too thin, it was more an improvement than otherwise. Marcus clutched Quintus' arm, and he knew the sculptor had seen Formosus too.

“I hope he doesn't give us away when he notices you,” Marcus whispered, and Quintus' heart missed a beat as Formosus languidly scanned the scene before him, but the slave's eyes passed uninterestedly over him without registering any kind of recognition.

“Did he not see us?” Quintus mumbled, “he looked straight at us but showed no sign.”

“Perhaps you should go over and talk to him,” Marcus answered quietly, “warn him.” Quintus nodded.

“Wait here for me,” he told the young sculptor.

Quintus approached Formosus slowly and carefully, waiting for a moment when there was no one near him. He went up to him, expecting the slave to look at him and register shock and surprise, but his expression did not change. At a loss, Quintus stood in front of Formosus and reached for fruit from the bowl.  
“The grapes are very sweet, sir,” Formosus said, looking blankly straight ahead, “they were sent straight from Sicily to my Master's table.” Quintus looked around carefully. There was no one close by to hear them.

“Formosus,” he hissed, “I have come to take you home.” Formosus looked at him then, straight in the eye. He didn't seem surprised, nor overjoyed.

“Which home would that be, sir?” he hissed, “the one you took me from when I was a child, or the one I fled from, accused as a murderer and then sold into slavery? I am quite happy here, thank you, at least no one lies to me or pretends to love me and care for me!” Quintus swallowed hard. This was not quite the reunion he had dreamed of.

“Formosus, I am sorry, I realise that I made a mistake, no, many mistakes, please forgive me. I have come to make up for my faults,” Quintus pleaded.

“That should take you a lifetime,” Formosus gritted, then he smiled affably. “Sir should try the figs, they are delicious.”

“We have the rest of our lives,” Quintus insisted, “I will never deceive you again, I swear.” Marcus came up behind him.

“You should not stay here talking for too long,” he whispered to Quintus, “you are quite conspicuous.”

“Ah, the idiot sculptor,” Formosus growled, still smiling expansively, “I should have throttled you properly when I had the chance. Do you pop up everywhere? I thought I had left you behind for good.”

“Formosus, please,” the Senator hissed.

“I cried my eyes out for you,” Formosus interrupted, “I wanted to die. My world came to an end. I was in despair, so deep, so dark and so desolate that I was sure I would not survive it. Do you have any idea what you put me through?”

“I had no choice, I was operating under the Emperor's instructions,” Quintus tried to explain, “if everything had gone according to plan we would have met in Tibur and I would have...”

“But it didn't go according to plan, thanks in part to this fool,” Formosus nodded towards Marcus angrily, “and thanks in part to the fact that you did not trust me enough to tell me about your plans.”

“I trust you with my life,” Quintus objected, “but you would have given me away inadvertently. You know very well that you can't act.” Formosus grunted angrily. Then he smiled.

“A fig, sir?” he said sweetly, then he gritted: “preferably shoved down sir's lying throat.” He turned abruptly and moved towards a group of guests, leaving Quintus and Marcus standing there.

“Apparently he's angry,” Marcus said helplessly.

“Apparently,” Quintus echoed.

*

Of course Formosus had sighted Quintus instantly the minute he had entered the room. Of course his heart had swelled inside him fit to burst at the sight of his beloved master. But forewarned, he was able to keep absolutely calm and the urge to give the Senator a taste of his own medicine was irresistible. He was especially annoyed to see Quintus accompanied by the fool of a sculptor who had cost him so dearly. How the Senator could possibly have befriended the man who had caused so much trouble for him was beyond Formosus' understanding. But what rankled even more was the fact that Quintus Aelius just assumed that Formosus would immediately drop everything and come back to him after all he had put him through. Not that Formosus wasn't perfectly willing to drop everything and follow the Senator to the ends of the earth if necessary, but the fact that Quintus Aelius apparently thought that he could just walk up to Formosus and order him to come with him angered the Celt.

He had cried his eyes out for his dead master, he had wanted to die himself. He had gone to hell and back in the deepest despair, apart from the fact that he had been wanted for murder, chased by slave hunters, mistreated, nearly raped, and then sold. Quintus Aelius would have to try a little harder than: “I've come to take you home” to win back Formosus' trust.  
That the subterfuge had been necessary, so Quintus had hinted, because he had been forced to undertake some top secret, senatorial mission cut no ice with Formosus. The only thing that registered was that Quintus had not had enough trust in his abilities to keep a secret, and that the whole affair had been so badly planned that they now found themselves in the current predicament as a consequence, which was mostly the Senator's fault while the rest of the blame lay with the grinning little ape of a sculptor by his side.  
Out of the corner of his eyes Formosus watched the Senator. He was not such a consummate actor himself, Formosus thought, he looked positively distraught. Of course there was no question of his going back to Quintus, but things had changed. He himself had changed. There would be conditions for his return, and Formosus wanted to be in a good bargaining position. Quintus was not going to get off lightly. One thing in particular would change, Formosus thought as he watched the Senator scrubbing his hand through his short curls as he did when agitated. Serves him right, Formosus thought to himself, but in his heart of hearts he would have loved to run into the arms of the man he had thought dead and who was now so miraculously, marvellously alive.  
*

Quintus started. The Prince was at his elbow, the golden mask with its brilliant gem of an eye covering half of his face, his sturdy frame clad in the most ornate of robes, golden-hemmed and sumptuous.

“I see you have met Kallias,” he said smoothly to Quintus, smiling with one half of his mouth and showing his even, white teeth, “does he meet with your approval?” The Senator blinked. Was his mind playing tricks on him or did he detect a hint of knowingness in the tone of the Prince's voice? It was hard to judge his expression, but Quintus believed that he could see stern disapproval in the depths of the one good eye currently fixed on himself.

“He is very beautiful,” Quintus agreed, “a most unusual slave.”

“I have found him to be most amenable,” the Prince continued, “he takes orders well and never needs the whip. He has been well-trained by whoever he belonged to before. The man must have been a fool to let go of such an obedient and attractive plaything.” Quintus felt his hands curling into fists when the Prince referred to Formosus as a plaything. He wondered whether he was being deliberately provoked. Instead of defending himself, the Senator just nodded.

“A fool indeed,” he agreed, “where did you acquire this paragon of beauty and virtue?”

My trusted advisor, scholar and friend, Tiro, discovered him while on a trip to Rome. Coming through Ostia he found him for sale at a most disreputable slave trader's auction. You must meet Tiro,” the Prince smiled and drew Quintus' arm through his own, “I will introduce you to him.”

*

Formosus watched the proceedings from the other side of the room with some trepidation. He didn't like the way the Prince was looking at the Roman, and when he saw that they were moving towards where Tiro was standing in a corner, sorrowfully surveying the scene before him, he felt even more worried. Tiro must have told the Prince of their conversation, of course he had, and his own little subterfuge of pretending that the name Tiro gave him was not that of his past master had not fooled Tiro, of course it hadn't. Formosus cursed his own impatience and stupidity. Perhaps Bandak had talked as well? But Bandak was currently offering wine to Marcus, who seemed suitably impressed by the lithe young Parthian's beauty. No, he trusted Bandak, but the Prince had saved Tiro's life. Of course he was indebted to him, and despite the fact that Tiro had made it clear that he was very fond of Formosus, saw him as a substitute for the son he had lost even, he was sure that the Prince's claim to his allegiance was stronger than his own.

Even from afar Formosus, who knew his old master very well, could see that Quintus was tense. Obviously he too was wary of the Prince and suspected that his connection to Formosus was somehow known to the Celt's new master. Formosus cursed himself. He had spoiled everything yet again in his eagerness to find out if the Senator was still alive. What had seemed merely difficult before now appeared to be impossible – fleeing from the palace with Quintus Aelius.  
“Formosus. Formosus!” Narses had to call him twice before he noticed the slender, short man at his side. “You are distracted,” Narses said sternly. “Do not stare at the Roman, do you understand me? Now serve your fruit and pretend that all is well. You are as transparent as a prostitute's veil, you idiot, and will get yourself into all kinds of trouble.” Narses slapped Formosus' thigh sharply. “Now move. We can talk later.” Formosus opened his mouth to speak, but Narses slapped a hand over it. “Shut up and serve that fruit before you get yourself into even deeper trouble,” he said, giving the Celt a furtive push.  
*

Marcus was in a daze of hormonal lust. The slave currently serving him wine and smiling at him most winningly was the prettiest creature he had ever encountered, even including Junius, whose hurtful and disdainful manner had made him a lot less attractive to Marcus. This boy would certainly never be cuttingly sarcastic like Junius, or morosely aggressive like Formosus. He would never roll his eyes at Marcus or threaten to strangle him. He was a delicate youth with melting dark eyes and the sweetest smile Marcus had ever seen. His dark-skinned limbs were slender and straight and his hands were gentle. Marcus wondered if he could slip off with the new-found object of his desire, somewhere out of sight of the other guests. He had conveniently forgotten that the slave he was currently making eyes at was in fact in the possession of their host, Prince Shapur, future King of Susa. It had also somehow slipped his mind that he was currently in the dangerous position of aiding and abetting the theft of one of the Prince's slaves.

Bandak was extremely pleased with his conquest. He had no idea who the young Roman was whose entire attention was directed at his person and whose interest was clearly visible through the thin material of the tunica he wore in deference to his host's Grecian preferences. The young man was the companion of the handsome stranger he had seen Formosus deep in agitated conversation with earlier, so he had to be of some importance to Formosus' endeavours. Bandak guessed that the older Roman must be Formosus' previous owner, the man that he had been pining for and who he hoped to escape with. Bandak was determined not to be left behind.  
Formosus and the Roman were a beautiful couple, indeed they were so conspicuously made for one another that far from being discreet, they were the focus of attention for the whole room while they talked together. Almost the same height, the wild chestnut hair of the younger contrasting with the tight, almost black curls of the other, their body language and expressions spoke more eloquently of the intimacy between the two than words ever could have. Bandak wished that he could have gone over to the pair and warned them, and he was relieved when he saw Formosus leave the Roman standing and move on. That way it appeared as if the Roman had propositioned the Celt, and the Celt had quite properly rejected him. At least Bandak hoped that was what the other guests would think.  
*

Formosus was not concentrating on what he was doing. Distracted by the Senator's presence in the room and baffled by the conversation he had just had with Narses, he didn't realise that he was alone in a dark corner behind two large erotic statues, and that the man he most dreaded seeing was rapidly closing in on him.

“Kallias,” Unnufer said, “your beauty eclipses the light in the room.” he smiled, looking Formosus up and down and then he reached out, wresting the bowl of fruit from Formosus' hands to set it aside on a table. Frantically, Formosus looked around. He had no idea what to do. No one could see him and the only escape route was blocked by the Egyptian's massive body. Unnufer bore down on him until he was backed against the wall. Before he could cry out, the merchant's mouth was on his, his fat tongue down Formosus' throat. The Celt tried to fight against the Egyptian's weight pinning him to the wall, but a combination of panic and the mass of Unnufer's body hindered his attempts. His attacker had one hand in his hair, holding a large clump of it painfully, and one hand clutching one of Formosus' buttocks tightly. No amount of thrashing around could dislodge Unnufer's grip on him, and he could feel the merchant's finger begin to penetrate him slowly and tortuously. Surely Narses would notice his absence and come looking for him, Formosus kept telling himself, trying to control the fear that he knew Unnufer relished.

When he felt the fat, short finger enter him, Formosus' mind blanked. He was back in Nero's palace, tied down, the cruel ropes biting into his skin, a boy of nineteen, screaming for the man who had sworn to protect him. With a last, blind effort he managed to get his mouth free of the odious lips on his and the disgusting tongue in his throat, and his cries echoed those he had screamed in Nero's Golden Palace: “Master!” he shouted, “where are you? Help me, please!”  
In seconds the Egyptian was ripped forcefully off him and flung so hard against one of the statues that it toppled and nearly fell. The merchant lay sprawled and groaning on the floor. Without thinking, Formosus flung himself into the arms of his saviour and buried his head against the other man's neck.  
“Master,” he sobbed, while Quintus Aelius stroked his hair soothingly and rocked him in his arms.

“I believe you are mistaken, slave.” He was pulled out of the Roman's arms roughly, and stood facing the Prince. “I am your master, and you would do well not to forget it.” He nodded to Narses who hurried towards Formosus and took his arm. “Take him away,” the Prince said with a wave of his hand, and Narses dragged the Celt after him, still looking over his shoulder at Quintus.  
“I think we should have a little talk after my guests have left,” the Prince said coldly, “I am sure you will not mind waiting elsewhere.” He gestured to two of the guards to come over. “The Senator will wait for me in my private sitting room,” he told the two burly and well-armed men, “please make sure he is not disturbed. Perhaps you might lock the door.” The guards positioned themselves on either side of the Roman and accompanied him out of the door and down the corridor.


	35. Chapter 35

It seemed to Quintus Aelius that he had waited for hours, locked in the Prince's main tabularium, which was an ostentatiously decorated room designed to show off the Prince's wealth to visitors. The Roman was supplied with wine, water and fruit but he felt no inclination to drink or eat anything. He worried about Formosus, and wondered what had become of Marcus. He hoped the sculptor had been clever enough to slip away during the commotion that had ensued when he attacked the Egyptian merchant, but he had his doubts. He feared that Formosus might be punished and cursed himself for his own stupidity.  
In fact, Quintus had walked straight into the palace with no clear idea of how to free Formosus. He had not imagined the place to be such a impenetrable fortress, and had been shocked when he realised how huge and how heavily guarded the palace really was. This hadn't really been apparent on his first visit.  
After he had now been discovered as Formosus' previous owner, the Prince would be suspicious and any negotiations would be a lot more difficult. Having to wait sapped the Senator's resolve, although he remained outwardly calm. He reminded himself that he had survived Nero, with whom one false word could have meant immediate death, and had infiltrated the conspiracy against Vespasian without being discovered. The Prince would not dare to violate the rights of a Roman senator, but he had Formosus in his power. Formosus was his to do with as he pleased and that threat hung over the Roman's head.  
It was past midnight when the door was unlocked and the Prince entered the room. He looked angry and that did not bode well for Quintus. He was followed by the man the Prince had introduced as Tiro, an older man with a wise and kind face whose eyes followed the Prince's every movement carefully. The Prince sat down opposite Quintus without speaking, and Tiro came to stand behind his master's chair. The guards were now inside the room, standing on either side of the door, blank expressions directed towards the Prince. The atmosphere was quietly ominous, and Quintus Aelius was reminded of certain situations in Nero's palace. It is not good if one individual holds too much power in his hands, Quintus could not help thinking, power corrupts all but the most humble.  
“Quintus Aelius Aurelius, Roman Senator,” the Prince said coldly, “when I invited you to my home you failed to reveal that you had an ulterior motive for gracing my abode with your presence.”  
“I apologise if you feel that I entered your house under false pretences,” Quintus answered smoothly, “but in fact until I saw him I did not know that the slave you call Kallias was in fact a member of my own household who was never sold by me and who was kidnapped by slaver-hunters and sold illegally.”

“Tiro paid ten thousand denarii for the slave, did you not?” the Prince asked his advisor. Tiro nodded.

“The transaction was perfectly legal and I have the documents to show for it.” Tiro gestured to a small side table on which a roll of papyrus had been laid.

“The slave-trader sold what was not his to sell,” Quintus argued, although he knew that he had not a legal foot to stand on.

“The slave had escaped, a runaway slave is fair game,” the Prince smiled.

“A runaway slave should be returned to his owner,” Quintus argued.

“That is hardly possible if the owner has been declared dead,” the Prince retorted. The Senator stared. “Yes, I do have informants, Quintus Aelius Aurelius, legally you were declared dead and your slave ran away. Legally he was the slave-trader's to sell.”

“Legally he should have been handed over to the authorities as he was under suspicion of murder,” Quintus retorted. The Prince laughed.

“The slave-trader could argue that being in Ostia, he would not know about that,” he returned. “But this talk is idle, we are in Alexandria, under the jurisdiction of the Governor of the Province of Egypt, who is, shall we say, indebted to me. You see legally, you don't really have an argument at all. I on the other hand can accuse you of entering my house under false pretences with the intention of stealing my slave.”

“You would hardly accuse a Roman Senator,” Quintus answered with a certainty he was far from feeling.

“Rome is a long way away,” the Prince said in a threatening tone, “and I am a powerful man.” Then he smiled again. “But I am also a reasonable man and have no wish to incur the wrath of the Roman Senate. If indeed their arm reaches as far as Alexandria. You may leave a free man under the condition that you set sail for Ostia immediately.”

“I will not leave without Formosus, who you call Kallias,” Quintus answered angrily.

“I am afraid you will,” the Prince answered, “you have no claim on my property, legal or otherwise. I thought we had established that.”

“I think you should go,” Tiro urged in a gentle voice, “it is late, and tempers are frayed.”

“Not without Formosus,” Quintus said stubbornly.

“In that case I think I would prefer you to stay the night where I am abreast of your activities,” the Prince answered calmly, and clapped his hands. The guards stepped forward and to either side of the Roman. “Take the Senator to one of the guest rooms,” he told the two heavily armed men, “and make sure he stays there. I think the blue room will be suitable.” He waved his hand and the guards escorted Quintus out of the room, down the endless corridors and into a beautifully decorated room with a blue mosaic floor. Any resistance was met with a firm hand on his arm and a knife brandished in his face. The door was locked behind him and he was left alone to contemplate his fate.

*

“You idiot,” Narses flung at Formosus when they were securely inside the familiar moist warmth of the bathing room, “you stupid fool!”

“Why?” Formosus' heart was still beating with a mixture of fear and elation.

“The handsome Roman,” Narses spat, “he is the man you have been pining for, I assume, the one you presumed dead?” Formosus nodded.

“Yes,” he affirmed, “when you described him I knew...”

“Why did you not say anything?” Narses shouted. Formosus just stared at him. “I see, you don't trust me, do you? You stupid child! Look at what you have got yourself into!”

“You would have told the Prince,” Formosus snarled back at him, “just as Tiro has done.”

“You told Tiro?” Narses shook his head. “Tiro would not have betrayed your confidence, but someone certainly did. The Prince was acting very strangely this afternoon, he was very angry. Now I know why. In fact, I knew what was wrong the minute the Roman stepped into the room and I saw your eyes on him. Transparent, you are.”

“So you told me,” Formosus growled. Narses cuffed his ear.

“Shut up and let me think,” he shrilled. Formosus snapped his mouth shut, mainly because he was still completely baffled by Narses' reaction. He watched the slight man walk back and forward and shove a slave to one side who was not quick enough to get out of his way. Then he sat down next to Formosus and turned to look at him. He stroked the Celt's hair out of his face almost affectionately. “You are a big, lumbering idiot,” Narses said, “and I knew you would get into trouble the minute I first saw you. Who else did you tell about this Roman Senator of yours?”

“Bandak,” Formosus answered sullenly.

“Well he won't have talked,” Narses pondered, “he is completely in awe of you. Anyone else?”

“I made a general remark that I needed to see someone to Atheas,” Formosus continued, feeling rather ashamed, “but he promised to keep it to himself.”

“You have been busy, spreading your little secret around,” Narses growled sarcastically, “who else? Apparently almost everyone apart from me.”

“No one else,” Formosus muttered.

“Well, I will find out who talked,” Narses gritted, “but that is of secondary importance at the moment. You will be punished by the Prince I am sure, we shall have to think of a way to appease him so that the punishment is not too harsh.”

“I don't want to appease the Prince,” Formosus complained, “I want to go back to my Master, my real Master.”

“I know you do, fool,” Narses snapped, cuffing Formosus' ear again, “but you can't go now so we have to deal with the problems as they arise. Get into the water. I dare say the Prince will want to see you tonight. You should look your best.”

“I already look my best,” Formosus complained, “I spent all morning in the bath.”

“Shut up,” Narses hissed irritably.

*

When the commotion ensued after the Senator had pounced on the Egyptian merchant and smashed him against one of the statues, some of the guests began to leave. Bandak grabbed Marcus by the sleeve and pushed him towards a group of Greek architects.

“Leave with them,” he whispered into the sculptor's ear.

“But I don't want to leave,” the Roman complained, “what happened?”

“There will be trouble,” Bandak hissed, “Formosus and the Senator have been discovered. You should go while you can. The Prince is very angry. If you want to help them then you can do so best if you go now.”

“What about you? When can I see you again?” Marcus asked.

“I don't know,” Bandak answered, pushing the sculptor towards the door hurriedly, “we will find a way. But you must go now.” Marcus turned one more time to look over his shoulder at Bandak, then he followed the others out of the door into the corridor where they were ushered by the guards through the palace onto the street outside. Marcus wondered whether he had done the right thing, leaving the Senator and Formosus behind, but Bandak had been insistent. He remembered that his meddling had hitherto been much more of a hindrance than a help. He made his way through the streets of Alexandria back to the villa, wondering what he should do if the Senator did not arrive home presently.

When the next morning dawned on a sleepless night, Marcus realised that something had probably gone wrong. Marcus had hoped that the Senator would reason with the Prince and that he would then hand over Formosus to his rightful owner. The chance of that happening had been slight, Marcus knew, and now he was left to ponder what to do next.  
*

Tiro looked around the corner of the bathing room door. He looked gaunt, and for once he looked tired. He nodded at Narses, but avoided Formosus' eyes.

“You are to prepare him and bring him to the red room,” Tiro ordered, and was gone before either of them could speak.

“Tiro is worried,” Narses muttered, “I don't like that.”

“What does the Prince want?” Formosus asked nervously.

“What do you think he wants, stupid child?” Narses snapped, “get up and turn around.” Formosus was tense and Narses' fingers hurt. “Relax,” Narses told him over and over again, but he couldn't.

“Where is the Senator?” he said more to himself.

“I don't know,” Narses answered softly, “but I will find out for you. Now please relax or this will go hard on you. Just because you have not yet seen the less agreeable side of the Prince's nature does not mean it is not there. I fear he had become attached to you. He will be disappointed that you favour another master, not that he cares what you want, and a disappointed Prince is a disagreeable Prince. You should be obedient and quiet. Do as he orders.” Narses withdrew his fingers.

“But I don't want this!” Formosus complained.

“I know you don't,” Narses answered, “but no one cares what a slave wants. Least of all a Prince.”

But that was not quite true, Formosus thought as he followed Narses to the red room. He had been afraid when he was bound the first time, and he had never been tied since then. Perhaps the Prince was not as unreasonable as Narses appeared to think. Perhaps he had already spoken to Quintus and he would let him go. Formosus couldn't abandon all hope, even though he knew it was unrealistic.  
Tiro was standing outside the door, and opened it when they arrived. Narses stayed back, and Formosus entered, his eyes lowered. Tiro prodded him and he fell to his knees in front of the Prince. He kept perfectly still, hardly daring to breath.

“You may go, Tiro,” the Prince ordered, his voice sounded hard and brittle.

“Master...” Tiro seemed to want to say something.

“Go!” the Prince thundered, and Formosus heard the door close. Tiro had left the room and he was alone with the Prince.

“This Roman,” the Prince said, getting up and walking around where Formosus was kneeling, “he was your master.”

“Yes, Master,” Formosus answered quietly, remembering Narses' words.

“You assumed that he was dead,” the Prince continued.

“Yes, Master.” Formosus voice sounded hoarse to his own ears.

“And now you have found out that he is alive, you want to go back to him.” The Prince's voice betrayed no emotion. Formosus thought it wiser to stay silent. “I can understand that,” the Prince mused, “he is a very attractive man. Who wouldn't want to be with him?” The Prince sighed. “I don't blame you, Kallias, for wanting to return to your old master. I do blame you for being deceitful and plotting your escape. You should be careful who you speak to.”

“I am sorry, Master,” Formosus answered, Narses words in his mind.

“I must also tell you, although I owe you no explanation, that you are now my property and will remain so. We travel to Susa next week, and the Senator will depart for Rome. Put him out of your head.” A feeling of shock and misery coursed through Formosus. Although he had not really expected anything else, to hear the Prince's words made tears roll down Formosus' face.

“Yes, master,” Formosus whispered.

“Tonight you will share my bed,” the Prince ordered, “and tomorrow I will decide how to punish you for your disobedience. I am quite disappointed in you, Kallias.”

“I am sorry, Master,” Formosus replied.

“You dislike being bound, do you not?” the Prince asked. Formosus' head shot up in shock, then he quickly lowered his eyes again.

“Yes Master,” he whispered.

“Why?” the Prince's voice was cool.

“I was once bound and hurt very badly when I was younger,” Formosus stuttered, “I nearly died.”

“I see,” the Prince answered and his voice was still cold, “you understand that I could punish you with this device, don't you?” Formosus swallowed.

“I understand, Master,” he whispered.

“I think this time a beating will suffice,” the Prince continued, “the next time you are disobedient or dishonest in any way I will have you tied and then I will do as I want with you. Should you disobey again, I will leave you to Unnufer to deal with. Do you understand me?”

“Yes Master,” Formosus answered, the shaking of his body making it hard for him to keep kneeling, “I understand you.”

“I will not tolerate any disobedience from you, I will deal with it mercilessly. You are a slave, and even though you are a remarkable and intelligent young man, you are a possession. One of my pornai. You are a valuable possession, but so are my statues and mosaics. If they displease me, I get rid of them. And in your case I would rather destroy you than know you to belong to another man. And now you will do what you were bought for, and please me in bed. Get up.”

*

Unable to think straight, Marcus refused the servant's offers of food and drink and stared out of the window Quintus Aelius was so fond of sitting by. He had no idea what to do. There was no news of the Senator's whereabouts, apparently he had not left the prince's palace. Perhaps he was still negotiating, or perhaps they had resolved their differences amicably and Quintus was still enjoying the Prince's hospitality. But Marcus couldn't help thinking that Quintus would have sent a messenger to inform him if that had been the case. Unfortunately all the signs pointed to the Senator being held at the palace against his will.

“Sir,” one of the slaves said, entering the room on quiet feet, “there is someone here to see the Senator.”  
“Who is it?” Marcus jumped to his feet, fearing that it could only be bad news.

“A Roman, Sir, he looks like a soldier but he wears neither body armour, nor a helmet. He looks very important sir.” The slave trod from one foot to the other.

“Sounds like one of the Praetorian Guards,” Marcus said more to himself. Then he turned to the slave. “Bring him in, I shall have to tell him that Quintus Aelius is not here, I suppose.”

“Is he not?” A broad, handsome man with light hair already stood in the doorway, making the slave jump. “I was sent here as a special envoy by the Emperor Vespasian himself. I have something that might be useful to him.” Then the Guard's eyes narrowed as he looked at Marcus more closely. ”By Jupiter,” he grinned, saying what Marcus himself had already realised, “I believe I know you. Well, well, well.”


	36. Chapter 36

Formosus gritted his teeth. The Prince had ordered him onto his knees and shoulders and had penetrated him with one harsh thrust. He was eternally grateful to Narses' careful preparation for sparing him the worst of the pain, but the Prince grabbed a handful of his thick hair, using it as leverage and forcing his head up and back uncomfortably. Gone were the whispered words of endearment in his ears, but Formosus didn't really mind. He didn't want the Prince to feel affection towards him, now less than ever. Now that he knew the Senator was alive and had crossed the sea to retrieve him, the indifference he had felt before when the Prince had used his body had turned to resentment. He did not want to be with anyone apart from Quintus.  
The Prince panted out his release, then he abruptly pushed Formosus away.  
“You may go,” he told the Celt, “I do not wish to spend the night with you. Tell Narses to send India to me. I am tired of your resistance. I can see in your eyes that you are thinking of him. Put him out of your mind.”

“Yes, Master,” Formosus answered softly, taking care not to show the resentment he felt on his face.

After he had been to seen Narses, Formosus went to bed and slept in exhaustion. It seemed to him that he had only just laid his head on the pillow when Tiro was in his room, rousing him by shaking his shoulder. It was barely light outside.  
“What is it?” Formosus said grumpily.

“I have to oversee your punishment,” Tiro sighed, “get up.” Formosus scrambled to his feet.

“What punishment?” Formosus asked, worried that the Prince might have changed his mind.

“You will be whipped,” Tiro answered unhappily, “I wish I could spare you that.”

“I will survive a beating,” Formosus swung his legs out of bed, “as long as it is nothing worse.”

“I wish the Roman had never come here,” Tiro suddenly burst out bitterly, “we could have been happy. Now you will never be contented again.”

“Not until I am reunited with him,” Formosus said gently, “I am sorry, Tiro.”

“So am I,” Tiro murmured, “so am I.”

Tiro led Formosus outside and around the palace to a small courtyard that Formosus had not yet seen. In the centre of the yard was a cross-shaped wooden construction that Formosus knew the slaves were tied to when they were lashed. He drew back.  
“He said he wouldn't tie me,” Formosus said unsteadily.

“You won't be tied,” Tiro answered, “if you manage to keep absolutely still. It is not easy. Have you ever been whipped before?” Formosus shook his head.

“Never,” he answered.

“It is painful,” Tiro explained, “but it will do no lasting harm, there have been explicit instructions not to break the skin on your back so as to avoid scarring. But there is one more thing.” Tiro led Formosus to the wooden cross, gesturing to grip the horizontal bar with his hands on either side.

“What else?” Formosus asked fearfully.

“The Prince insisted that I tell you. One of the windows overlooking the courtyard is the window to the blue guest room. The window is barred. Behind it is the Senator Quintus Aelius Aurelius. He will have to witness your punishment, I am sorry. I realise this will make it harder for you. But perhaps it will also strengthen your resolve not to flinch or cry out. Try to draw strength from this rather than let it make you despair.”

“He is still here?” Formosus tried to turn, but Tiro forced him to keep standing with his back to the palace.

“Don't look at him, it will be worse for him and it will anger the Prince, who is no doubt also watching. The Senator refused to leave without you.” Tiro shook his head. “He is as stubborn as you are.” Formosus smiled.

“He wouldn't go without me,” he repeated softly, “knowing that, I can bear my punishment easily.”

The punishment, when it came, was not so easy to handle. A stocky, apathetic looking man with bulgingly muscular arms approached, nodded to Tiro and swung the lash experimentally, a whip with three strips of leather attached. He ran a hand over Formosus' smooth-skinned shoulder and back, testing the skin. Then he turned to Tiro.  
“How many?” he said in heavily accented Greek.

“Ten,” Tiro answered, “and don't break the skin.” The man nodded.

“Anything else?” he said in a low voice.

“Make it look harsh,” Tiro murmured, “but try to be kind.”

“I will do my best,” the man answered, “are you ready?” he asked Formosus in a louder voice. Formosus braced himself.

“As ready as I'll ever be,” he answered, his mind firmly fixed on the image of Quintus' face.

The first crack of the whip hit him across the shoulder blades. At first he could feel no pain at all, then it was as if a fire had broken out on his skin and was spreading all over his back. Formosus groaned, he couldn't help himself. Then he thought of Quintus watching him from the window and no doubt suffering a lot more than Formosus was, and he stood a little straighter. The second crack was a little lower, and the pain was immediate this time. A tiny sob escaped Formosus, but he shut his mouth tightly and survived the third and fourth strokes without a murmur. The fifth stroke hit his buttocks, but it was with less force than the others had been. The sixth stroke smarted painfully, and Formosus nearly let go of the wooden bar to shield himself.  
“Keep holding on!” Tiro warned softly.

The last four strokes were administered swiftly, and it wasn't until after Tiro gently unclenched his hands from the wooden cross, and pulled him away from it that Formosus realised that it was all over and that there was an excruciating pain all over his back. But it was done and he had not cried out, and he had not let go.  
“You're brave,” the man who had whipped him said, “I don't think I have ever had one who has managed to keep perfectly silent.”

“Thank you for going easy on me,” Formosus answered, glad that he had stayed impassive for Quintus, looking on from one of the windows behind him. The man shrugged.

“Some deserve their punishment,” he grinned, “others don't. If Tiro tells me to take it easy on someone, I do. You'll be fine, Tiro will help you. Just sleep on your stomach for the next few days. When will you bring the next one?” he addressed Tiro.

“I will tend to this one, then will bring you the next one. No need to go easy on him,” Tiro added dismissively.

“I understand,” the other man laughed, “I wouldn't go easy on that one anyway.”

“Who were you talking about?” Formosus asked as they were walking away, “who else will be punished?”  
“Proteus,” Tiro answered shortly.

“Proteus? Why him?” Formosus asked, confused.

“It seems he overheard a conversation you had with Bandak, when you told him that the Roman Senator was most likely your last master. Proteus told the Prince, and the Prince ordered his punishment. Proteus is stupid; he knows that the Prince hates tale-telling, but he doesn't mind getting punished himself as long as he can get you into trouble.”

“So it was Proteus who betrayed me,” Formosus mused, “Narses did wonder.”

“And when Narses finds out, Proteus will be in a lot more trouble,” Tiro continued, leading the way through the corridors to the bath house, “in the meantime I have certain skills and will put something on your back to ease the pain and speed the healing. Something I will not make available to Proteus.”

“I thought Narses didn't like me,” Formosus mused, wincing as the skin on his back tightened and smarted.

“You thought wrong,” Tiro answered briefly.

*

Quintus was pacing the room. He had seen Formosus take his punishment without even flinching, and a feeling of pride in the Celt's bravery, and anger at his mistreatment warred for domination in his breast. The Senator had brought Formosus up, he had been his constant companion since he had been fourteen years old, he had watched him grow in body and mind, and proud as he was that Formosus had learned to be steadfast in the face of adversity, he was aggrieved that anyone dared to harm the man who was so precious to him.

Beating his slaves was something that Quintus had never done, disobedience was rare in the Senator's household, his slaves and servants were in awe of his unsmiling seriousness and eager to please their master. Quintus had certainly never even considered beating Formosus, he had occasionally slapped the boy's hand, but the subject of whipping had always been something of a joke between them, as they both knew it would never happen. It upset the Roman to see that his carefully nurtured charge had been beaten. If the Prince had appeared at the door of Quintus' room at that moment, the Roman would probably have attacked him.  
Around midday a slave arrived with a tray, and was accompanied into the room by one of the guards. Quintus did not feel like eating, but he drank a glass of water and wondered where he should go from there. It was hopeless. The Prince would not tolerate his presence for much longer, and when he was expelled from the palace, no doubt the Prince would use his influence with the governor of Alexandria to have him removed from that city and forcibly returned to Rome. By the time he had arranged for help in Rome and returned back to Alexandria, Formosus would be long gone, taken to Susa, deep in the heart of Parthia and even further away from Roman jurisdiction. If he lost Formosus now he would never see him again for sure.  
He waited idly for evening to come, hopeful that the Prince would perhaps talk to him again and he could reason with him. When the door did open at last, it was Tiro, the Prince's advisor. He stepped inside and pushed the door wide open. He looked unbearably unhappy and Quintus, who was a good judge of character, felt for him. He knew instinctively that Tiro was a good man, and one who had suffered greatly in his life.  
“You may go,” Tiro said sadly, “go back to your villa, and then to Rome.”

“No,” Quintus Aelius answered firmly, “I will not go without Formosus, you will have to drag me out and then I will camp at your gates and stay there day and night.”

“There is no need for that,” Tiro said, the Prince will relinquish Formosus to you. He will be sent to your villa this same evening.” Quintus took a step back.

“I don't believe you,” he growled.

“I give you my word,” Tiro answered seriously, “and the Prince sends you this as a token.” Tiro handed over a leather and silver collar, it had been opened and the silver key lay in the palm of Tiro's hand.

“It is the slave collar Formosus wore yesterday,” Quintus said. “But I don't understand, why is the Prince handing him over to me suddenly? Just this morning he had him punished! Why did he change his mind?”

“You could say he traded Formosus for something even more valuable than a clever and beautiful slave,” Tiro said, “the only thing the Prince would rather have.”

“What is this priceless thing, and who has given it to the Prince in exchange for Formosus?” Quintus shook his head uncomprehendingly.

“This priceless thing is twenty years of peace,” Tiro explained. “You must be high in the Emperor's esteem indeed.”

“I do not understand,” Quintus answered, “you seem to speak in riddles.”

“This afternoon the Prince had two unexpected visitors,” Tiro said, guiding Quintus through the labyrinth of corridors, “who made the Prince an offer he could not refuse. It is not for me to disclose the details. But I promise Formosus will be delivered to you by nightfall. I hope being with you will make him happy.”

“I will make sure of it,” Quintus answered, strangely touched by the older man's obvious concern and affection for Formosus.

*

Formosus was lying on his stomach on the bed, the soothing, cooling salve that Tiro had spread on his back had taken effect an he could hardly feel the smarting the strokes had left on his back. When the door opened, he expected Tiro to be standing there, but it was Narses. He closed the door behind himself and came forward, sitting down gently on the bed.

“Well?” he asked, “and how is the back?”

“It hardly hurts at all,” Formosus answered. Narses nodded. After a pause, he continued.

“So you love this Roman, and you want to be with him, do you?” he demanded.

“Yes, I do,” Formosus said, “I lost all hope when I thought he had died, and now the world is full of light again.”

“Strange to hear you talk like that,” Narses chuckled, “there is something very dour and unpoetic about you, Celt, which I always found quite refreshing after the giggling stupidity of the other boys. But then you are hardly a boy, Formosus.” Formosus lifted his head.

“You have never called me by my name before,” he said.

“No,” Narses said, “but I will now. Tiro will be here shortly. I wanted to talk to you before he comes. Tell me, do you really love this Roman? Is it his beauty or his power?” Formosus shook his head, confused at the increasingly strange turn the conversation was taking.

“If he were scarred like the Prince and were no longer beautiful, I would still love him. If he were the lowliest beggar on the streets of Rome, or a country slave, I would feel no differently.”

“And, if you will forgive the indiscretion,” here Narses smiled as he cared not a fig for discretion, “when you are with him in bed, is that different from being with others?” Formosus wrinkled his brow. As before, he felt pity for the man who would never be able to experience this most basic of human functions.

“As a slave, I am required to share the bed with whoever I am ordered to,” Formosus explained carefully, “the act is mechanical and I feel nothing. If I am lucky, it is pleasurable to my body, but never to my soul. When I am with him, my soul sings. Animula vagula*, my little wandering soul, comes home.” Narses laughed, and shook his head.

There is poetry in you after all, Formosus. Unfortunately I will never understand the pleasures of the flesh. But the vagaries of the heart I understand all too well.” It seemed as if Narses would have spoken further, but the door opened and Tiro walked in. He looked sad, but he smiled at Formosus.

“Sit up,” he told the Celt, “I have something to take away, and something to give back.”

When Tiro had removed the collar around his neck, Formosus felt strangely cold. He shivered.  
“What does that mean?” he asked.

“The Prince releases you, you are to be restored to your previous owner, Senator Quintus Aelius Aurelius,” Tiro answered moving towards the door.

“But why?” Formosus asked, shock, fear and elation coursing through his body, “he said he would rather destroy me than let me go to another.”

“That was before he knew the price someone was willing to pay for your release,” Tiro answered.

“Who?” Formosus demanded, “I hope Master - I mean Quintus Aelius - has not done anything rash!”

“He has friends in very high places it seems,” Tiro answered, “you have nothing to fear, everything will be well with you and the man you seem to love so dearly. And I dare say no one would dispute his feelings for you.” Before Formosus could ask any more questions, Tiro had disappeared back through the door.

“Come with me,” Narses said gently, “let me tend to you one last time and then I will dress you so that we can send you on your way.”


	37. Chapter 37

Formosus was sitting on the bench in Narses' bathing room, while the other man was fussing with his hair.  
“Quintus Aelius doesn't care about my hair,” Formosus said impatiently.

“I don't want him to think I have not been looking after you properly,” Narses answered prissily, tugging on Formosus' unruly chestnut mass.

“No one would ever think that,” Formosus smiled and turned to the other man. “Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure,” Narses answered softly.

“Look after Bandak,” Formosus swallowed, “can I say good bye to him?”

“There is no need for you to,” Narses said, “as part of the agreement he is to be sent on to your master tomorrow. I don't know what he wants with Bandak, but there you are.” Formosus frowned, feeling slightly annoyed. Why would the Senator want another slave? But then Tiro appeared in the door and the thought went to the back of his mind.

“Say your goodbyes,” he told Formosus solemnly, “and come with me. I shall hand you over to the Roman Guard who has come to bring you to your master.”

“Is the Senator not here?” Formosus felt disappointed.

“Apparently not.” Tiro's voice sounded harsh.

“Will I see the Prince to say goodbye?” Formosus insisted.

“He does not want to see you,” Tiro answered shortly. Formosus bowed his head, he felt unexpectedly wistful and melancholy.

“Goodbye Narses,” Formosus enveloped the delicately boned man in a bear hug, “I shall hope against hope that we will meet again.”

“Careful, you are crushing me, you great, lumbering idiot,” Narses scolded, but Formosus could see that his eyes were moist, “the Prince leaves for Susa in a few days, and no doubt I will follow him soon. But who knows, perhaps we shall indeed meet again. Until then, I wish you the best, χαῖρε to you, Formosus, a greeting to be said to those who we part from as well as those who meet again.”

“Come now, Formosus,” Tiro urged, “let us not prolong this unduly, you are not going to your death, instead you are getting what you longed for.” Formosus turned with a parting smile in Narses' direction, and walked down the corridor one last time, past the guards and the windows opening into the garden with its waving palms and bright flowers. One of the guards stepped forward.

“Atheas,” Formosus smiled, “I wish you the best.”

“Goodbye,” the Scythian said, “I enjoyed wrestling with you. I am glad for you that you have got what you wished for.”

They reached the great entrance door. It was already flung open, and outside he could see the back of a broad, light-haired Roman in the garb of a Praetorian Guard, unadorned without helmet or breastplate, the weapons hidden under the folds of clothing.  
“We must part,” said Tiro, “one of us goes gladly, the other with a heavy heart.”

“I am sorry, Tiro,” Formosus said, close to tears now.

“Don't be sorry, “you must live your life, and I mine. I am happy that we could share our lives, for a little while.”

“Come with me,” Formosus said on an impulse, “come with me to Rome. Learned men such as you are held in great esteem.”

“I am not suited to Rome,” Tiro shook his head, “I am a Parthian, the Romans are our enemies. And I could never leave Narses, my best friend in this world. And I would not leave the Prince, for whatever his faults, he is my master. I serve my master and you yours.”

“I cannot bear the thought of never seeing you again,” Formosus wept, the tears flowing from his eyes.

“But you have made your choice, and I mine,” Tiro said, stroking Formosus' arm in the familiar gesture of affection, “life is about choices, they make us masters of our destiny. And if we do not meet again in life, we will meet again after death in Garo-Demana, where the good souls go after death and where I hope to see my wife and son again.”

“Garo-Demana?” Formosus wiped his eyes on the back of his hand, “where is that?”

“I am a Priest of the Magi,” Tiro smiled, “a Zoroastrian. We believe that after death the souls must cross the Chinvat bridge, and those who did good in their lives and chose wisely will enter Garo-Demana, the House of Song and Light. There we will surely meet again.” Formosus smiled through the tears.

“Then I am certain we will meet again,” he said, “for we Celts believe that the dead inhabit the Otherworld, surely that is the same place as your House of Song and Light.” Tiro hugged the tall Celt, then he pushed him through the door.

“Go, and choose wisely, wherever your life may lead you.” Before Formosus could answer, the door was closed behind him. The guard, who had been standing discreetly with his back to Formosus, turned around and smiled.

“Well, Celt,” he said, “we meet again. Are you ready to see the man you believed dead? He cannot wait to see you.”

“You ?” Formosus stuttered, “but what are you doing here?”

“That's a long story,” Aulus Tarquinius grinned, “but no doubt there will be time for that later, this evening all will be explained. But we must now hurry. Your arrival is eagerly anticipated. There is someone who longs to see you first.”

*

Quintus Aelius was nervous. His hands were damp, and his heart was beating in his throat. He tried to remind himself that he had lived with Formosus for years and had never felt nervous about seeing him, but he couldn't help himself. He had sensed a change in Formosus when he had met him at the Prince's palace; the angry way he had confronted Quintus was something Formosus would never have done previously. He would sulk, growl and grit his teeth, but never outright berate the Senator. Now Quintus Aelius was beset with a strange fear that Formosus no longer loved him. And had he ever loved him at all? Taken from his home, kept as a slave, what choice had he ever had? Instead of savouring the moment before they met again, the Senator was racked with doubt and consumed with guilt.

The slaves and servants had been sent to their quarters, Marcus was at the library, there was no one to disturb them. Aulus Tarquinius had orders to deliver Formosus to the door and then leave. Quintus tried to calm himself, but his heart missed a beat when he heard the door open and close again. Slowly he walked down the passage towards the tall figure he saw standing there. For a moment they just stood there, looking at one another.  
“Master?” Formosus said questioningly.

“No,” Quintus answered, “I freed you. I am not your Master.”

“You freed me after your death,” Formosus smiled, “you are quite obviously alive.”

“When we are back in Rome we will change the will,” Quintus hurried to say, “I stand by that, you are no longer any man's slave. And the house in Tibur, it is yours. I will settle a sum of money on you so that you can go there to live if you wish.” Formosus frowned.

“Why would I want to go there to live?” he asked, mystified. The Senator clenched his fists in despair. Why was it so difficult to find the right words? Why had he never learned to talk about his feelings?

“Perhaps you don't want to live with me,” Quintus Aelius stammered, “perhaps you are sick of me and want to be alone for a time. I am so sorry for causing you so much pain.”

“I don't blame you, Master,” Formosus answered, “and I never want to be parted from you again.” Quintus sighed with relief. Then he smiled. “Thank the gods,” he mumbled, close to tears for the first time since he had reached adulthood.

“I don't want your money,” Formosus continued, grinning, “but I will accept the house, just so that I can make sure you don't come up with any of your demented plans to change what is already perfect.”

“My plans were not demented,” Quintus said haughtily, “they would have been a good investment.”

“No, Master,” Formosus shook his head.

“I am not your Master,” Quintus contradicted, “you are a libertus, a freedman.”

“Patrone, then, “Formosus smiled.

“You can call me by my name, you know,” the Senator said, feeling strangely unsure of himself. It was as if their roles had been reversed. He was insecure and nervous, while Formosus seemed perfectly at ease. He wanted to take Formosus in his arms and tell him that he had missed him, that he loved him more than life itself, but he could not.

“Quintus Aelius,” Formosus began, “I have dreamed of this moment for months, and now it is here you are standing there like a lump of wood. Will you not embrace me?”

“Yes, I will,” the Senator managed to squeeze out before he and Formosus were locked in a tight embrace, their hands exploring and rediscovering every plane of the beloved bodies, tearing at clothes and longing to feel familiar skin on skin.

“Bedroom,” Quintus Aelius panted, grabbing Formosus' hand and pulling him down a passage and into his room. He pushed Formosus onto his back on the bed and straddled his waist, leaning over him to kiss his lips. Before their lips touched, Formosus held him back.

“One more thing,” he smiled, “there is one thing you can give me. If you feel you owe me something then it is this one thing that I covet.” Quintus Aelius drew back.

“What is it you want?” the Roman asked.

Formosus sat up and pushed the Senator off him gently and onto his back, climbing onto him until their positions were reversed.

“Do you remember that afternoon at the White Water springs,” he asked quietly, “when we bathed together?” It began to dawn on Quintus what it might be that the Celt coveted.  
“Which afternoon?” he answered, putting on his most forbidding and senatorial face, “we stopped there nearly every time we travelled Tibur to bathe.”

“It was the first time we ever stopped there,” Formosus explained, apparently not intimidated by Quintus' expression, “I think you know very well what I am alluding to.”

“Absolutely not,” Quintus blustered, now that he knew exactly what Formosus wanted, he was determined to nip this nonsense in the bud, “I have no idea. Well, we can talk later,” he said, trying to roll Formosus off.

“No,” Formosus said, his large hands clamping around Quintus' wrists like vices, “we will discuss this now.” Quintus struggled briefly, but there was no shaking Formosus off. Worst of all, he could feel definite interest stirring in the lower region of his body, and by his sly smile he could tell that Formosus, his body pressed against Quintus' own, could feel it too.

“Please,” Formosus said. Quintus wavered. He couldn't remember the Celt ever asking him outright for anything other than this.

“I can't,” Quintus answered, “I am a nobleman, it is against the natural order...”

“No one would need to know,” Formosus interrupted, licking his curved, raspberry-red lips that Quintus longed to feel on his own. “If you don't enjoy it, we need never speak of it again.”

“Is it so important to you?” Quintus asked, looking into the honey-coloured, green-flecked eyes of the man hovering over him. He had forgotten how deep and gentle they were.

“Yes, it is important to me,” Formosus answered, “you asked me what it is that I want; I want you.” Quintus smiled.

“Then so be it. I'm yours,” he whispered.

Formosus hat felt supremely confident since he had first stepped into the door of the Senator's villa in Alexandria. Aulus had left him there with a wink, saying that they would meet in the evening, and that all would be explained about Formosus' surprising release from captivity; now, Aulus grinned, he supposed that the Senator and Formosus had more important things to catch up on.  
Quintus Aelius had followed him to Alexandria, he had come to the Prince's palace to free him and had refused to budge until Formosus was released. At last Formosus had the proof of the Senator's affection for him that he had always craved. Quintus Aelius' farewell letter had the words written in the Senator's own hand. Te amo. Te amabo semper. I will always love you. Formosus had nothing left to fear and it showed. The Senator on the other hand was uncharacteristically awkward. He was obviously feeling guilty and was unsure of Formosus' feelings for him. Their positions were reversed, and that was perfect for what Formosus had planned.  
When Quintus had agreed to Formosus' proposal that their roles in bed be reversed, Formosus had been almost shocked at the speed with which the Senator had given up his resistance. He had expected a lot more blustering and senatorial eyebrow-wagging. He concluded that either Quintus was feeling so guilty that he would have given anything to Formosus as compensation, or that the Senator was so starved of sexual contact that he just wanted to get on with the business of having sex. There was a third, much more alluring possibility: The Senator had wanted this too, but had never been able to ask for it or accept it, as it was against Roman mores for a grown man, a nobleman especially, to allow himself to be penetrated by a lover, and one who was younger and not even a Roman citizen at that. Formosus decided to assume the third option; that did not lessen the anxiety he felt suddenly descend on his shoulders when Quintus unexpectedly succumbed to his advances.  
Quintus was obviously waiting for Formosus to make the first move. Perhaps he hoped that the Celt would take fright at his own courage and give up on his attempts to take the lead. Perhaps he was just curious to see what Formosus would do. Perhaps he secretly relished the chance to give up control of the situation and hand over the responsibility to the man he loved and trusted like no other. Whatever was going on in the Senator's head, it worried Formosus. He was afraid that he would not be good enough, that Quintus would be so upset with the proceedings that he would follow Formosus' suggestion and never speak of it again. Suddenly Formosus was glad that this was not the first time he had penetrated a lover, and that he had had the chance to practise under the guidance of his cheerful and responsive sparring partner Atheas. He put his hand out to cup the cheek of his lover, lying underneath him and waiting, and brought his lips down on the mouth of the man he had longed for in uncounted sleepless nights.  
Formosus took off his own clothes before pulling the Senator upright and removing his, piece for piece. He relished the slow revealing of the body he lusted for, the smooth muscles, the nest of dark curly hair on chest and abdomen, the purplish colour of the erection already slapping the Senator's flat, muscled stomach. It was exhilarating to feel himself as the one who desired another, instead of being the object of another's desire. He had been sick of being the plaything of other men, and while he had never been Quintus' plaything, he was thankful for the chance to feel in control of a situation for once in his life. Formosus pushed the other man down on his back, Quintus' expression was a mixture of apprehension, bemusement and raw lust but he didn't move. He was waiting.  
Spurred into action, Formosus slid down the Senator's body until he was between the man's spread legs, and lowered his mouth over Quintus member, quivering and engorged as it stood stiffly away from his body. The Senator moaned then, and bucked, his hands nearly came down onto Quintus' head to guide him, but he stopped at the last minute and stretched them to either side of his own head, grabbing the pillows and twisting his fingers into them, still moaning and straining his body under Formosus' ministrations.  
Then it was as if the pieces of a puzzle were coming together and fitting effortlessly. The Roman reacted to every move Formosus made, lifting himself, so that he could be prepared with the help of the perfumed oil that was helpfully located just within reach, his eyes closed while he gave himself up to Formosus' careful fingering. When the Celt withdrew his fingers, Quintus' dark eyes opened and fixed on Formosus' paler ones, staring at them searchingly until he smiled, apparently having found whatever he had been looking for in their depths, and nodded.  
“I'm ready, carissime,” he said, and for the first time he consciously uttered an endearment to Formosus. Now Formosus was not nervous, he was elated, joyful, and the sense that everything was coming together that belonged together made him feel as if he should be laughing and crying at the same time.

Formosus entered the other man carefully, but not hesitantly, mindful of Atheas' words, then he stopped to let Quintus adjust, keeping his eyes on his face as he remembered the Roman had done when they had made love the very first time. It crossed his mind briefly to wonder whether this was Quintus' first time being penetrated, he knew that it was quite usual for noble Roman youths to sleep with older men of their own class, and he wondered if this had been the case with his own lover, and if it had, who the man had been with whom Quintus had shared his first experience of physical love. But the thought was gone almost as quickly as it appeared and Formosus felt himself slide inside a little further, and he gasped at the feeling of being surrounded by the heat and softness of the body he had longed for so desperately.  
“Master,” he moaned, and he felt rather than saw the other man laugh, tears in his eyes, the shaking of his body causing Formosus to slide inside completely.

“You can move now,” Quintus said softly, reaching up and stroking the hair out of Formosus' face, “you don't have to be so very careful.”

Formosus moved, slowly at first, then faster, urgently, and when Quintus leaned up to press his lips to his lover's they were lost in a kiss for a long moment.  
“It's been too long,” Quintus panted, “I can't hold back any longer.” Formosus reached down and he had hardly closed his hand around the other man's erection when Quintus came, pouring strings of white over his belly. The sight of it pushed Formosus into an orgasm that seemed to last for many minutes until it subsided and Formosus collapsed, groaning, but careful not to crush the man beneath him, onto the bed next to Quintus. He lay there, catching his breath, not daring to look over at the other man for fear of what he might see; disappointment, pain, disgust or rejection.

“Well,” Quintus said in an unsteady voice, “was it what you had dreamed it would be like?” Formosus opened his eyes then and looked at the other man. His expression was unsure and almost fearful. The Celt realised that Quintus was just as nervous as he himself was.

“It was everything I have ever dreamed of and more,” Formosus said, swallowing, “shall we ever speak of it again?” Quintus laughed, his face lit up with joy.

“I am sure we will still be speaking of our great reunion when we are old and grey,” he answered, “but we have plenty of time to re-enact it over and over again, if you are willing.”

“More than willing,” Formosus smiled, rolling into the other man's arms. He had come home at last.


	38. Chapter 38

“Well, what have we here?” Iason blinked as he was dragged out of the pantry into the kitchen, an oil lamp standing on a table nearby had been lit and was burning brightly, temporarily blinding him.

“Slave, by the look of him,” one of the men said dismissively, “marks on his neck. Must wear a collar usually.”

“Who are you, and what are you doing here, spying on us?” the other man boomed. As his eyes adjusted to the light he saw that the man currently holding him by the shoulder was a large, thick-set man in his fifties but with no trace of ageing, a prominent beaked nose in a humourous face that was not unkind, and the sinewy, muscled frame of a man who exerted his body daily.

“I'm not spying,” Iason hastened to say.

“How dare you speak to the Emperor like that?” the first man burst out. He was of the same age as the first man but lean, almost cadaverous-looking, dark eyes burning from out of their hollows and thick, wavy grey hair neatly combed back from his noble face.

“Possibly he doesn't know who I am, Quintus Petillius,” the first man laughed, “well, I will introduce myself when you have told me who you are, pantry-thief.” He shook Iason's shoulder gently, looking amused.

“I meant no harm,” Iason stuttered, for once his quick wit had deserted him, “I was hungry.”

“So you broke in,” Quintus Petillius growled. Iason had heard the name before, he was the emperor's brother-in-law, close and trusted friend and his general. “Do you realised who this is?” He gestured towards the other man who was looking increasingly amused by the proceedings. Iason dropped to his knees.

“Hail Caesar,” he mumbled, dropping his eyes.

“Yes, yes,” the Emperor tutted, not unkindly, “stand up and answer my question. We are not in Rome. I dispense with formalities when I am in the field or the soldiers would spend so much time on their knees that we would never win any battles. Quintus Petillius, stop bullying the young man or we will never get any sense out of him. Now, who are you and what are you doing in Quintus Aelius' house?”

Iason realised that lying or avoiding the question would cut no ice with the sharp-eyed, square-jawed ruler. He got to his feet slowly, keeping his eyes lowered.  
“My name is Iason, called Graecus, my master is Tarquinius Priscus,” he began, “and Junius, the slave of Titus Cassius, let me into the house.”

“Junius, the slave of Titus Cassius,” the Emperor repeated, “and what business did Junius, the slave of Titus Cassius have, letting you in to Quintus Aelius' villa?”

“Junius and I came here because Formosus, who was Quintus Aelius' slave, gave us the key and begged us to come here to look for something that his master had left for him, but we found nothing.”

“Formosus?” The Emperor looked at his son-in-law.

“That is Quintus Aelius' concubinus, the one he has gone to look for,” Quintus Petillius answered.

“Ah, I thought I recognised the name,” the Emperor nodded, “so you are a friend of Formosus, is that correct?” Iason nodded.

“You could say that, Caesar,” he responded.

“Do you know where he is?” the Emperor asked, “Quintus Aelius is looking for him.”

“The slave-hunters took him in Ostia,” Iason answered miserably, “and begging your pardon, Quintus Aelius is dead. You have been away from Rome, he was murdered. Formosus was charged with his murder and fled, and fell into the hands of slave-hunters.”

“I see,” the Emperor answered, “but you are wrong on one count, Quintus Aelius is not dead. We met him not far from here. He waited here for Formosus but when he did not come, he realised that something was wrong, and has now gone to find him. Quintus Aelius faked his death.” Iason smiled.

“I knew it!” he couldn't help saying.

“Did you?” The Emperor looked amused.

“Well you see.” Iason explained excitedly, “someone had been here, in the villa, when Junius and I arrived. And there were only two people for whom the contents of the villa could have been of interest. One was Formosus, and he had been captured by the slave-hunters, the other was Quintus Aelius. You seen, there were no signs that anyone had broken into the villa, and the only other keys that I know of are the key we were given by Formosus, and a key that Titus Cassius kept.”

“I also have a key,” the Emperor smiled, “but you were right, it was indeed Quintus Aelius who had hoped to find his slave here. When he didn't appear, Quintus Aelius met me halfway between here and Aternum, where he gave me some information he had obtained for me, and doubled back to Rome to find out what had happened to his concubinus. No doubt he has been tracking him, perhaps he has found him by now.”

“I doubt it, Emperor,” Iason replied, “Formosus is no longer in Italia. And Junius went back to Rome because he was worried about his master, caught in the riots.”

“Riots?” the Emperor asked, “in Rome? Quintus Aelius only said that there was some rumour being put around that there would be an uprising of Celtic slaves, untrue of course and just a tactic employed by those trying to oust me.”

“Apparently there was enough trouble stirred up to send people onto the streets,” Iason explained, “Junius was afraid for his master, and put himself in great danger, as he is a Celt himself.”

“Ah now I know who you are talking of,” Quintus Petillius interrupted, “Titus Cassius' Celtic slave, he is that pretty fellow that Calpurnia's maid used to sigh over. I admit I always assumed he was rather an air-head.”

“Well be that as it may, if there are riots in Rome we must waste no time getting there, stopping this nuisance and holding the conspirators accountable. And then we should find a way to help Quintus Aelius, who risked his life for me and is now apparently chasing after his slave.” The Emperor smiled and turned to Iason. “You seem to be a knowledgable fellow, how can we best aid Quintus Aelius?”

“This needs careful planning, Imperator,” Iason answered, “and we should talk to Junius, who was also present when Formosus was taken. But I am a runaway slave, what will you do with me?”

“I know your master well. It is said that you manage your master's affairs for him and that you are the only reason he still has any money left. I might persuade your master that you are better employed using your talents to the benefit of Rome. Your master is well known to me, I am sure he will not mind you serving the Emperor. And if I am pleased with your work, I will make you my freedman. Now hurry and eat because we ride to Rome before daybreak.”

*

“I have come to say goodbye, for the time being.” Aulus Tarquinius looked uncharacteristically grave.

“So you know where Formosus and Quintus Aelius are?” Junius asked.

“We have a very good idea at least, after we interrogated the slave trader at Ostia you told us of,” Aulus Tarquinius answered, “apparently the buyer is a Parthian. Not many Parthians live in Alexandria due to their hatred of all things Roman, but the Emperor's secret police know that the most prominent of those who do is the Parthian prince Shapur, son of the Satrap of Susa. The latter, so the frumentarii inform us, is on his death bed. Prince Shapur apparently has an appetite for handsome young men, it is entirely possible that this is where Formosus is. If that is the case, then Quintus Aelius will need help extracting him, especially as the Prince by all accounts is planning to travel to Susa to claim the throne after his father's death.”

“And the Emperor believes that you can get Formosus away from the future King of Susa? He must have faith in your talents indeed.” Junius couldn't quite keep a mocking tone out of his voice. Sometimes he hated himself for not being able to show his feelings, hiding them behind a veneer of levity and sarcasm. But what he had endured as a child of eleven had left him with a skin thicker than an elephant's hide to protect himself. Aulus Tarquinius smiled. Junius often had the feeling that the Guard could see right through him.

“He trusts me as I stayed loyal to him during the riots,” the Guard said, “and I look suitably impressive. As to my talents, I think he trusts more in the intelligence of his new slave, who came up with a plan to persuade the Prince to part with Formosus. Princes don't like to be told what to do, but this idea might work.”

“He trusts a slave to advise him?” Junius frowned.

“It has been known to happen,” Aulus grinned, “as you should know.”

“Who is this slave?” Junius asked suspiciously.

“You know him,” Aulus slapped Junius jovially on the back, making the other man growl in annoyance, “he sends his regards. His name is Iason. Apparently the Emperor came upon him in Tibur, hiding in Quintus Aelius' larder. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“Ah,” Junius flushed, for once lost for words.

“I knew you were involved,” Aulus crowed in triumph, “you never seem to be far away when something inexplicable happens. Anyway, the Emperor bought him from his owner, and now he advises the Emperor. This seems to make them both happy. No doubt he will pay you a visit soon. The Greek is very proud of his intellect, and it seems that he has found a position that suits him.”

“Good,” Junius replied, “I am glad for him. He is a good man and did his best to help Formosus.” Junius sighed. “So it seems you will be away for some weeks, do your best and help my dearest friend to come home. If you do, I will be eternally grateful.”

“Then I shall look forward to your expressions of gratefulness,” Aelius raised one eyebrow and snaked an arm around Junius waist, “and hope it will prompt you to grant me what you have so far denied me.”

“Damned Romans,” Junius muttered, “using every opportunity to barter and haggle.”

“It's how the Roman Empire was built,” Aulus Tarquinius proclaimed, “but I'm not a Roman. I'm an Etruscan.”

“Damned Etruscans then,” Junius complained, but he didn't draw away from Aulus' embrace.

*

Maia had seen a lot of the varied expressions of life, despite the fact that she was only eighteen years old. She was part of the inventory of the villa that was rented out to guests who came to Alexandria. The current tenant, a tall, slightly forbidding but very handsome Roman was very much to her taste. A kitchen slave, Maia tried to make herself especially useful, anticipating the Roman's wishes and serving him food and wine when he looked fatigued. She got a sad smile and a nod for her trouble, and hoped fervently that he would buy her from her owner and take her with him to Rome when he left, as sometimes happened.

The slaves had been sent to their quarters until the evening, no one knew why. A guest was expected for the evening meal, so when it was time to prepare it, the slaves left their quarters to go about their business. When Maia entered the kitchen, nothing prepared her for the sight of an extremely tall man with a shock of bright, golden-brown hair standing away from his head at odd angles, pouring himself a glass of wine and shoving a large handful of olives out of a bowl into his mouth. This in itself was strange enough, but the fact that the man was completely naked and seemed quite unaware of the fact appeared to Maia to be utterly beyond comprehension. Resisting the urge to scream, she said: “Are you Adonis, sir?” Maia was Greek, and had seen the statue of Adonis at the temple dedicated to that deity at Athens. It seemed a fair representation of the giant currently helping himself to olives and grapes in the kitchen.  
“Hmm?” Adonis looked up at her and frowned. “No I'm not,” he said with his mouth full, “I'm just a slave.” He swallowed, then he stood up straight and smiled. “I am Formosus, Quintus Aelius' freedman,” he corrected himself proudly, wiping his hands on his bare thighs in a most ungodlike manner. Maia stared at him. She still couldn't understand what a naked man, whether god or human, was doing in the kitchen. He frowned again and then looked down at himself, squirming and turning slightly pink. “Oh,” he exclaimed, cupping his hands in front of his genitals, “I apologise. I'm not used to wearing clothes.” He began to sidle towards the door.

“Because gods don't wear clothes?” Maia hazarded a guess.

“Don't they?” The naked man looked puzzled, then he hurtled out of the kitchen door and down the corridor with surprising speed.

Quintus Aelius was lying in bed, basking in the post-coital afterglow when Formosus burst back into the room and scooted under the covers, pressing close to him.  
“You are back?” Quintus Aelius stroked lazily over his arm, “I thought you had gone to fetch wine and fruit.”

“There was a girl in the kitchen,” Formosus explained, “she seemed rather taken aback to see me.” Quintus Aelius smiled.

“You might want to get into the habit of dressing occasionally, not that I mind you being naked.”

“She kept talking about gods and Adonis,” Formosus shook his head in confusion, “perhaps she is deluded?”

“That would have been Maia, the kitchen slave,” Quintus answered, “she has not struck me as being deluded so far, she is quick, clever and observant. She was probably quite alarmed to see a naked man in her kitchen. And now you dare not go back to get the wine and food I suppose.” Formosus grinned sheepishly.

“I don't want to scare her,” he said.

“I think she scared you,” Quintus Aelius answered. There was a knock on the door. “Yes?” Quintus called.

The slight young girl that Formosus had met in the kitchen poked her head around the door, she was carrying an amphora of wine in one hand, and in the other a bowl of fruit with two beakers balanced on top.  
“Sir forgot the wine,” she smiled sweetly, setting it down on the table, “and I brought some fruit.”

“Very good, Maia,” Quintus told her approvingly, watching Formosus' face turn pink with embarrassment, “that was very observant of you.”

“Thank you, Master,” she answered softly as she left the room.

*

Formosus couldn't help blushing when the Praetorian Guard entered the villa in the evening, he well remembered their encounter at the Porta Equilina and wondered if Quintus Aelius knew about it. Aulus Tarquinius though greeted him as if they had only just met that morning and was politely neutral. Formosus relaxed when he realised that the other man had no interest in embarrassing him, and he soon warmed to Aulus.

Describing what had happened in Rome after the Emperor had returned, the Guard explained: “The traitors that Quintus Aelius had discovered, Eprius Marcellus and Caecina Alienus, were incarcerated and will be on trial as we speak. No doubt they will be put to death as the evidence against them is crushingly obvious. The riots were immediately dispersed as soon as the Emperor arrived in Rome.” He turned to smile at Formosus. “You might be interested to know that the Emperor was accompanied by someone I believe you know quite well. You remember Iason, I presume?” Formosus nodded dumbly.  
“Iason?” Quintus Aelius queried, a jealous edge to his voice.

“I met him in Tibur,” Formosus explained, “he is Tarquinius Priscus' slave, but he had run away from his master. He helped me escape from the slave trader's house, until I was recaptured again.” Marcus, who had been sitting silently next to Quintus Aelius, reddened.

“I did not purposely lead the slave hunters to you,” he said, “when you rejected me I left the house and went into the next taverna, and poured my heart out to a man sitting there. He was very interested and asked me where I was staying, so I told him. I had no idea that he was one of the slave-hunters. I am sorry.” Formosus glared at him.

“Of all the idiotic things to do,” he growled. Quintus Aelius put a hand on the other man's arm.

“He knows,” Quintus Aelius said quietly, “and has done his best to make amends.”

“ You had better watch out when you get back to Rome,” Aulus Tarquinius said to Marcus jovially, “Junius intends to make you die a slow death, he has planned it in detail. Hard to believe that someone with such a sweet face has such a murderous heart.”

“I can easily believe he has a murderous heart,” Marcus groaned, “perhaps I should not return to Rome at all.”

“You know Junius?” Formosus raised an eyebrow.

“I know him quite well.” Aulus Tarquinius cleared his throat. “As for your friend Iason,” he continued rather hurriedly it appeared to Formosus, “it seems that Junius left him at Tibur to hide, while he himself returned to Rome. It was in Tibur that the Emperor stayed overnight on his way back to Rome, and there he happened upon Iason, who amused him with his quick wit and his intelligence. He brought him back to Rome, persuaded Priscus that Iason was better employed as attendant to the Emperor, and it was Iason who came up with an idea which ensured that Prince Shapur, who the secret police thought the most likely owner of Formosus, would release him and hand him over to you, Quintus Aelius.” Here Aulus bowed to the Senator.

“Which brings us to the question of what it was you offered the Prince in exchange for Formosus?” Quintus returned. “I hope you did not threaten yet another campaign against Parthia, we do not have the troops for another war.”

“Quite the opposite,” Aulus answered smugly, “and this was precisely what Iason argued when the Emperor suggested it. In fact, considering the gruelling war in Judea and the troops needed there, together with the unruly provinces of Britannia, begging your pardon,” he nodded at Formosus who had opened his mouth to speak, “not to mention some of the more troublesome tribes in Germania and Gaul, and the Scythians in the east, we will not be able to wage any more wars for many years to come. Nero conducted several forays into Parthia, resulting in nothing but animosity towards Rome from that quarter. We have no hope of overthrowing Parthian rule in the near future and no wish to try. But thanks to Nero's campaigns, the Parthians fear us and the disruption we have caused. Time and time again, Roman soldiers have destroyed the ancient town of Susa.”

“All this I know,” Quintus Aelius snapped impatiently, “what does it have to do with us?”

“Just this,” Aulus answered smugly, “at Iason's suggestion the Emperor authorised me to hand over an agreement, signed by his own hand, that no Roman would threaten or enter Susa apart from peacefully for the next twenty years. He offered the Prince, soon to be King of Susa, twenty years of peace. What a promise for a new king to present to his people.”

“But we have no intention of attacking Parthia,” Quintus said, a smile spreading over his face, “certainly not in the next twenty years. We do not have the troops available.”

“Indeed,” Aulus nodded, “you know that, and so do I, but the prince does not, nor does any ordinary Roman. It was a gift that did not hurt us to give, but was of great value to the recipient. And so, we shall all get what we want in the end. I hope.”


	39. Chapter 39

“You know the names of the conspirators, Acilius Aviola argued, “what is holding you back? Your work here is finished, you cannot stay.” Quintus Aelius hesitated. He was in a very dangerous situation. He had been seen with the Emperor's advisor, and he was on the brink of being discovered as a infiltrator. “You must disappear from Rome now, otherwise you will be found out and the traitors will kill you.” Quintus shook his head. How to explain?  
“I have a family, I cannot leave Rome now, I have not arranged sufficient measures for their protection.” Acilius Aviola was a level-headed and trustworthy man, but Quintus knew that he would hardly understand that it was fear for the safety of his own slave that worried the Senator most.

“You must leave Rome until the Emperor returns,” Aviola explained to Quintus as if the Senator was a child that had difficulty understanding the spoken word, “or they will kill you. You will not be of any use to your family dead.” Quintus nodded.

“I know,” he answered miserably. He was lucky that he had not paid for his dangerous mission with his life already, there had been several close calls. Fear for his life had led him to make the will freeing Formosus after his death. But he wasn't dead yet, and the slave was in a vulnerable position. He hated himself for being so selfish and not freeing the slave years ago. He should have freed him after that terrible event in Nero's palace, perhaps then Formosus would have learned to trust him again. But in truth he had feared that Formosus would leave him if given his freedom. Now he wished the Celt far away in safety, in Britannia even.

“There is something else.” Acilius Aviola looked grave. “If you leave Rome as you must, there is a danger that the conspirators will be alarmed by your sudden departure and will suspect that you are an agent of the Emperor's. They might flee from Rome and all our work will have been for nothing. They will hide somewhere and continue plotting the Emperor's death, and they will seek you out and kill you.”

“Yes,” Quintus agreed, then another thought struck him. “Repercussions against my family are very likely, they might take revenge on those who are dear to me.”

“Indeed they will,” Aviola agreed, “your entire family is in danger. Their minions will harm those close to you not only in revenge, but also to lure you back to Rome. It is impossible for you to leave Rome with your wife and entire household, but you have also your sister and her family to think of. They have a young son, do they not? And your friends, they too are all endangered. That is why you cannot just leave Rome and cast suspicion on yourself. On the other hand, you cannot stay. It is too dangerous for you. But I have a plan. Come with me.”

Quintus Aelius followed the elderly advisor to the Emperor through the corridors of the Flavian palace that had been built to replace Nero's ostentatious Golden House. Vespasian had endeared himself to the Romans by dismantling the hated palace and replacing it with the Flavian amphitheatre, which would house the Games for the Romans' amusement when it was completed. Vespasian was a down-to earth, practical man without sentimentality, but with a sense of humour and, in sharp contrast to Nero, an endearing inability to take himself remotely seriously. His frequent jokes were often at his own expense. Nonetheless, Vespasian was a soldier, harsh and ruthless in battle and absolutely merciless when dealing with his foes. A kind and benevolent ruler he was not, and the conspirators would be dealt with accordingly, of this Quintus was sure. But the Emperor was not in Rome, he was engineering the total destruction of the rebellious Jews in Judea.  
Acilius Aviola nodded to one of the guards, who stepped aside and opened a door to a narrow stairway that led down to the catacombs under the palace. Quintus had never been there, indeed he had no idea that they existed. It was dark and dank in the low passageway, and the further along they went, the colder it became. It briefly entered Quintus head that Aviola was going to suggest that he hide here, under the palace in the freezing cold and dark until the emperor's return, but the old man turned off the passage abruptly and entered a small, cave like room. On a broad shelf carved out of the rock there was a shape covered with a sheet, a dead body by the look of it. Quintus, who had seen plenty of corpses, some of them his own friends and comrades fallen in battle, nonetheless shivered. The flickering light of the oil lamp on the walls of the catacomb, the shadows on the face of the advisor and the white sheet over the body lying motionless were enough to make the brave but superstitious Senator feel very uneasy.  
Acilius Aviola smiled, his face in the half light looked demonic.  
“I would have ordered you to stop spying on the conspirators earlier,” he said and the awful thought crossed Quintus' mind that Acilius Aviola was part of the conspiracy himself and had taken him down to the catacombs to murder him as he had possibly done to the person lying under the sheet, “but I was waiting for the perfect opportunity. That presented itself last night, a fatal consequence of a brawl in a Taverna.”

Acilius Aviola pulled the sheet away and revealed a male corpse with the tall, muscular frame of a young Roman, tight, dark curls on his head and a noble face, not entirely unlike Quintus' own. “He is not as handsome as you are, Senator, but he has your build and stature, and if we obscure the face and make sure the body is quickly taken away, we should be able to convince even your closest allies that you have been killed. The conspirators will think you have been murdered because you associated with them. If they do not suspect you of treachery, the will not harm your family. There would also be no need to if you are already dead. You will leave Rome and stay away until the Emperor's return.” Acilius Aviola sniffed. “For obvious reasons we must stage your fake murder tonight, or in the early hours of the morning when there are as few witnesses to our subterfuge as possible. We will hide the corpse nearby and at a sign from you we will substitute the body for your own in your bed, and then have you hidden in the palace until it is safe for you to leave Rome. When the Emperor arrives back, and the frumentarii tell me that he is already on board a ship bound for Aternum where he can set foot on Italian soil secretly without alarming the conspirators, he will deal with the traitors and you can reveal our subterfuge to your family, who will no doubt be relieved to have you back and will treasure you all the more.” Quintus nodded. It was a way out, he thought, he could protect Formosus, stay alive, and the conspirators would be brought to justice. The early hours of the morning when Formosus was out for his run would be perfect. Formosus might notice that the dead body was not his master, but no one else would look closely enough if the body was suitably grisly and blood-drenched.  
“Yes,” he said looking down at the corpse, “but you will have to obscure the face, he is not any where near as handsome as I am.” Quintus showed one of his rare smiles.

*

“I did not anticipate that you would be charged with my murder,” Quintus admitted to Formosus, “but if you had just gone home and been arrested by the Vigiles, Acilius Aviola would have seen to it that you would have been freed and taken somewhere safe. Unfortunately Marcus intervened. Acilius sent out the Vigiles to search for you, officially for my murder but unofficially to bring you to the palace and keep you safe, but the slave hunters unfortunately caught you and did not bring you back to Rome but sold you. I travelled on to Tibur thinking that you would heed my words to you and go there immediately. Thanks to Marcus though you did not make it to Tibur, where I would have joined you a day later, but you were taken instead to Ostia which I knew nothing of. By the time Junius and your friend Iason reached Tibur, I was on already my way towards Aternum where I met the Emperor half way and warned him of the conspiracy. I then doubled back to Rome where I scared Titus Cassius, who was in deep mourning for me, into a decline. It was then I realised how much pain I had caused with my subterfuge. Through Junius I learned what had happened in Ostia. As I needed help and had to stay hidden, I decided that Marcus should be made to pay for the trouble he had caused and I forced him to accompany me. I am glad I did as he has been invaluable. We extracted what had happened to you from the slave trader, who has since been also paid a visit by Aulus Tarquinus and probably rues the day he ever set eyes on you, and set sail for Alexandria. And here we are.”

Formosus frowned. “Badly planned, badly executed, in short: a disaster; and you were afraid I might give you away inadvertently? Apparently you are perfectly able to cause mayhem without my help. But seeing as you went to all that trouble to retrieve me I will generously forgive you. If you promise never to hide anything from me ever again.” Quintus nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but Formosus held up his hand. “There will also be no more comments from you on my ability to act, or lack of it, Patrone.” Quintus sighed.  
“As my freedman you now carry my family name,” he explained, “and I would never accuse one of my own family of being lacking in any way at all. Like your Patronus, Formosus, you are of course perfect in all aspects. Even your acting.” Yes, he himself had changed, Formosus mused, but so had his Master. His Patronus, he corrected. Quintus had never smiled and laughed so freely before in all the years that Formosus had known him. The Roman had always enjoyed gentle teasing, but never as often has he did now. It was as if a weight had fallen off his shoulders. Perhaps not only Formosus now had the assurance that he was loved and cherished, but Quintus did, too.

*

“Don't worry,” Aulus laughed boomingly, “I will see to it that the idiot sculptor gets home safely, as will the other two.” To Marcus' deep regret, Aulus Tarquinius had picked up on a remark Formosus had carelessly let drop, using his favourite epithet for the hapless young man, and now the Guard routinely referred to him as “the idiot sculptor”, accompanied by several minutes of mirth. Bandak, who had arrived the day after Formosus had been freed, and was still very quiet and overawed, usually frowned when he heard his new master being referred to in such a manner. Maia, on the other hand, who had confided in Formosus her wish to belong to Quintus Aelius' household and who was duly bought by the Roman at the instigation of his beloved freedman, was very hard pressed to keep a straight face. She was still not absolutely sure that Formosus was not in fact some manifestation of Adonis, obviously besotted with her new master. It was not unheard of for gods to take human form and fall in love with mere mortals. Zeus did so frequently. Every time she tried to confront Formosus with this knowledge he would look at her suspiciously and back away, apparently afraid that she had discovered his secret, or so she believed. Maia was to be sent on ahead to Rome, together with Aulus, Marcus and Bandak, while Formosus and Quintus Aelius would stay for a few days long in Alexandria to visit the Great Library which Formosus had not yet seen. It was am omission Quintus was determined to make up for.

“I still say the girl is unhinged,” Formosus remarked as they watched the four board the boat bound for Ostia, “all that talk about the gods.”  
“She is perfectly normal,” Quintus contradicted, “you are just unfamiliar with the female mind. She thinks you are Adonis. Women are notoriously superstitious.”

“Women are superstitious,” Formosus repeated slowly, then a smile spread over his face. “Superstitious like the people who visit the Augurs to find out what the future has in store for them you mean?” Quintus blushed.

“That has nothing to do with superstition,” he blustered, “Augury is a perfectly scientific way of foretelling the future. You had druids in Britannia.”

“They did not foretell the future,” Formosus argued, “no one can.”

“The Augurs foretold that I would die within the week, which I did”, Quintus said defiantly.

“No you didn't,” Formosus answered dryly, “luckily.”

*

“Well, here I am,” Aulus Tarquinius proclaimed, presenting himself to Junius, who was idling in the garden.

“I can see that,” Junius answered, raising an eyebrow.

“I have come to collect my reward,” Aulus grinned.

“I promised you no reward, “ Junius said haughtily, “and anyway, you didn't bring Formosus with you.”

“But he is safe, and with Quintus Aelius, and will be back in Rome within the week.” Aulus sidled closer to the Celt.

“I will think about it when Formosus has finally returned to Rome,” Junius said dismissively, turning to go.

“No you won't,” Aulus growled, grabbing Junius by the arm and pulling him back, “you'll think about it now, and you'll think fast. I want you, and I have waited long enough. Speak.”

“You have bedded half of Rome,” Junius said sullenly, avoiding his eyes.

“And you have bedded the other half,” Aulus returned, not loosening his grip on the Celt's arm, “so we have sown our wild oats.”

“I don't like sleeping with men,” Junius argued.

“You don't have to like sleeping with men,” Aulus answered, “just with me. All I ask is that you try it. I would never do anything you objected to. What is it really? What is stopping you?” His tone was gentle now, he could see in Junius' deep, soulful eyes that there was something troubling the Celt.

“When I was eleven,” Junius recounted quietly, “I was bought by a Roman officer who thought me very pretty. He would stuff my underwear into my mouth when he abused my body, because the pain was so unbearable that I could not help screaming, however much he threatened me. Every time he entered me I thought I would die of it. I knew that it was only a matter of time before he hurt me so badly that I bled to death. So I killed him first.” Aulus blinked.  
“I did not know,” he said, letting go of Junius' arm and stroking it gently.

“Titus Cassius bought me then, he saved me. He showed me love, affection and warmth. He never asked me for anything that I did not give freely and gladly.” Junius looked at Aulus, puzzled. He felt tears in his eyes, and he had not cried since the day that Titus Cassius had bought him at the slave market and had taken him home, wrapped in a blanket.

“I understand,” Aulus said, enveloping Junius in a tight embrace, “And I can promise you that as long as I can draw a breath, nothing bad will ever happen to you again, whether you accept me as your lover, or whether we remain friends.” Junius cried then, for the first time in over ten years, tears for his lost childhood, for the mother he was taken from, for the pain and the fear, and for joy because he would soon be reunited with Formosus, who he loved like a brother. Mostly though, he cried because he had Titus Cassius and Aulus Tarquinius in his life to care for him.  
“You're not so bad,” Junius sniffed against the Guard's shoulder, “perhaps I would like to find out whether you are as good a lover as you are said to be.”

“Very wise,” Aulus Tarquinius said, “never settle for anything less than the best.”


	40. Chapter 40

“This is unbelievable,” Formosus whispered reverently for the hundredth time, trailing the tips of his fingers over the rows and rows of papyrus and pergament scrolls, “the entire knowledge of humankind, all in one building.”  
“Perhaps not the entire knowledge of humankind,” Quintus tried to interrupt, “but certainly of the civilized world.” Formosus was not listening. Fascinated with the sheer size of the place and the wealth of information at his fingertips, the Celt had been through twenty scrolls already and showed no sign of tiring. Although Quintus was appreciative enough of the Great Library of Alexandria, after four solid hours and not a bite of lunch he would very much have liked a breath of fresh air, a brisk walk and something to eat. Unfortunately for the Roman, Formosus' enthusiasm seemed undampened by the lack of sustenance.

“Look,” Formosus said, also for the hundredth time as he unrolled yet another scroll, “this is a drawing of the Adonis statue at Athens that Maia imagines I resemble. It looks nothing like me.” Quintus peered over his shoulder.

“It looks exactly like you,” he exclaimed, “no wonder the poor girl is confused.”

“I'm not even Greek,” Formosus scoffed.

“Neither is Adonis, he is Phoenician,” Quintis sniped.

“Hungry?” Formosus lowered the scroll and grinned. “You always get bad-tempered when you are hungry, Patrone.”

“Hungry for you,” Quintus whispered into Formosus' ear and kissed the side of his neck, briefly wondering whether he could back Formosus into one of the reading niches and have his way with him without anyone noticing.

“Then perhaps we should go back to the villa,” Formosus answered in a low voice, “Master.”

“It's Master now, is it?” Quintus smiled.

“For the time being – Master.” Formosus licked his berry-red lips and turned to go.

“To have something you have written included in the great library,” Formosus stretched out on the bed like a great cat, “must be the greatest honour that could ever be bestowed.”  
“Hmm,” Quintus half-agreed, feeling his member twitch again at the sight of the long body beside him flexing, although they had just finished their love-making minutes ago, “you should write something and submit it if you feel so strongly about this.”

“Who would want to read what a slave has written?” Formosus scoffed, reaching down to fondle the other man's growing erection, “or even an ex-slave? I have nothing to write.”

“You have had a very interesting life,” Quintus rejoined, “you have a story to tell. Consider it.” He rolled on top of the Celt, pinning him to the bed. “Your Greek is perfect, and you have had a very good formal education, even if I do say so myself,” here Quintus grinned self-mockingly and leaned down to kiss Formosus, “write about what happened to you here in Alexandria.”

“Would you read it if I did?” Formosus asked doubtfully.

“I would read anything you wrote,” Quintus answered, stroking the thick hair back from Formosus' forehead, “although I think it will pain me to hear what you experienced.”

“If you read what I write, that will be enough for me.” Formosus spread his legs, lifting his head to press his lips against his lover's.

*

Junius was nervous. It was no use to pretend otherwise. He watched Aulus disrobe with a mixture of arousal and dread. The Guard was a beautiful specimen of a man, anyone could see that, but Junius was used to Formosus, who had little regard for clothing, so he was acustomed to seeing naked male beauty. Aulus was different, though; where Formosus, even in his nakedness, had the easy and unchallenging appeal of a handsome, but sexually completely uninteresting and slightly annoying brother, Aulus' attraction was of a very different, and a very sexual kind. Junius' eyes dropped to Aulus' member. It was erect, but not fully so, and even in its partially engorged state it was large.

“Let me see you,” Aulus said gently, moving closer to Junius and very slowly raising his hand to the brooch on Junius' shoulder that clasped his clothing, “you have the lovliest face I have ever seen and I already suspect that you have the body to match.” Junius swallowed. He had no problem disrobing in front of women, but they were different; they were soft and sweet and they understood without words what a man never could. Titus Cassius was different also. He knew Junius and they had talked about his past. He trusted Titus Cassius blindly. But then he had every reason to trust Aulus, too. Junius looked into his eyes and saw nothing but gentle affection there. He took a deep breath and nodded, closing his eyes in tense anticipation.

When his clothes fell to the ground, Junius felt the cool air touch his skin. He shivered, keeping his eyes tightly closed in fear of what he might see if he opened them. A feeling he had never known before, a fear of being considered lacking, suddenly beset him. He was used to both women and men being smitten with his looks, but he was afraid Aulus might find him unattractive.  
“No one has eyes as deep and as beautiful as yours,” Aulus said, his voice close to Junius' ear, “I wish you would open them.” When he did, Junius saw Aulus' face full of desire and love, eyes fixed on his, looming in front of his own.

“I am afraid,” Junius admitted, his voice hoarse.  
“I know,” Aulus answered seriously, “and I am honoured that you would allow me to go this far. We do not have to do this, I will not stop loving you because of it.”

“I want this,” Junius said, surprising himself.

“If you are afraid of penetration,” Aulus nodded, gratified, “there are other things. You can penetrate me, or we can use our mouths.” Experienced as he was, Junius blushed to hear these things spoken of so openly. He hestitated before he spoke.

“No,” he replied in a firm voice, “I believe this is the way it is meant to be. You will be careful and gentle I know, and I trust you.”

It was different from sleeping with women, it was less light-hearted and joyful, but more intense. It was not like sleeping with Titus Cassius, it was not as comforting and familiar. But for the first time Junius got a idea of why Formosus had forgotten his previous life, taken the name that Quintus Aelius had given him and bent his will in all things to the man he loved. Nothing else seemed to matter while he was in Aulus's arms, and the world narrowed to just the two of them, connected and spinning through the cosmos alone.  
“Well,” Aulus said when they had both panted out their orgasms and caught their breath, “am I up to your high standards? Can I stay?” He was grinning, he had felt the same thing that Junius had, and knew they had shared something special.

“You'll do,” Junius answered haughtily, “you need some practice – a lot of practice, several times daily I would say, then I'm sure you will be quite adequate.”

“A lot of practice, you say,” Aulus repeated, “who shall protect Rome and the Emperor while I am practising with you?”

“I dare say they'll manage,” Junius sighed happily, pulling Aulus closer and kissing his cheek, “you can't be everywhere at once.”

*

Will we come here again?” Formosus asked sadly as they wandered through the streets of Alexandria towards the dock. They could see the huge lighthouse guarding the entrance to the port of Alexandria looming in the distance.

“Certainly,” Quintus nodded, “we can come here again if you wish. I think you have fallen in love with the library.”

“A little bit,” Formosus smiled, but he was also thinking of Tiro, leaving Alexandria would sever the last bond attaching him to the man who had come to mean more to him than he had realised.

“We will come here again,” Quintus said firmly, reading his expression, “and there will be ways for you to rejoin absent friends, I am sure of it.” Formosus blinked, puzzled.

“How do you know?” he asked.

“I saw it in your face,” Quintus answered quietly, “and when I met Tiro I realised that there was some depth of feeling between you. You will meet again, I am sure of it.”

“Perhaps,” Formosus agreed, “but for the time being, I am happy that I have you.”

Wordlessly they walked to the port where the ship bound for Ostia was loading the last bales of cotton and crates of Egyptian corn before setting sail.  
“Is our luggage on board?” Quintus called over to the sailors. They stopped what they were doing and stared.

“No, sir,” one of them answered, “I saw it being taken to that warehouse over there,” he pointed to a nearby building, “I assumed it was to be repacked or brought later.”

“Stupid slaves, numbskulls,” Quintus cursed, “I told them to take it straight on board.” He turned to Formosus. “Wait here,” he said, “I'll arrange for the luggage to be brought over.” Shaking his head and muttering profanities under his breath, the Roman strode over to the warehouse indicated, while Formosus stood on the edge of the quay, watching the boat that was to take them both back to Roman soil being loaded with goods.

*

Bandak was frightened. He had not imagined his life in Rome to be like this. The capital of the Roman empire was overcrowded and loud, Bandak spoke no Latin and did not understand what was being said, and he wished he was back in the quiet, scented room in Prince Shapur's palace. Marcus was busy directing the slaves with his luggage to the house, and the house, when they got there, was not at all like the Prince's palace, but a medium-sized, sprawling town house with outbuildings and a yard full of marble blocks and tools. It looked more like a workman's shed than the home of a sculptor. Worst of all was Marcus father, who seemed to do nothing but shout in the strange language that Bandak could not understand, and point at him. Marcus, to give him credit, rebuffed his father in a strident tone of voice, grabbed Bandak by the arm and dragged him up into what appeared to be his bedroom.

“My father is a little difficult,” Marcus said to him in Greek, “but he doesn't mean it. I think that, under the circumstances, we should find a place of our own. We will have no peace if we remain under my father's roof. What do you think?”

“What do I think?” Bandak repeated, “ but I am a slave, it is up to you, Master.” Marcus looked at him open-mouthed.

“I didn't bring you here as my slave,” he spluttered, “I thought you were here of your own free will. I don't need a slave, I need a companion. A partner.”

“A partner?” Bandak smiled. “I would like to be a partner.”

When Aulus and Junius visited them several days later, they were already installed in a clean and airy appartment in one of Rome's nicer blocks of flats.  
“For an idiot sculptor, you've done quite well,” Aulus laughed.

“I can still work at my father's,” Marcus explained, “and in the evening I come home.” He exchanged a smile with Bandak. “We are working on the sculptures for the new Circus,” he continued, “and they are coming along beautifully. Thanks to the research I was able to do in the Great Library I think they will be very special. Soon everyone will know my name and we can move into a big house on the Palatine Hill.”

“I like it here,” Bandak said in halting Latin.

“I know you do,” Marcus said indulgently, “but you deserve better.”

“Sickening little display,” Junius interrupted, “but tell me, whatever became of the statue of Formosus you were making?” Marcus smiled.

“I'm working on it, and I plan to make a second, one of Quintus Aelius. I shall give the one of Formosus to Quintus, and the one of the Senator to Formosus.”

“What a hopeless romantic you are, messenger boy.” Junius rolled his eyes and sighed.

*

“I have good news,” Titus Cassius said as Camilla offered him a seat in the tabularium in Quintus Aelius' town house.

“Has the senate decided to give me the inheritence my poor deceased husband left for the slave?” she asked, smiling sweetly. She had not forgotten their last meeting and the veiled threats that Titus Cassius' words had implied, she was polite and accomodating, folding her hands primly over her swollen belly.

“Something far more joyous,” Titus Cassius smiled, “my dear friend and your poor husband, Quintus Aelius, is alive and on his way to Rome as we speak. He asked me to tell you this so that you would not be alarmed if you heard it elsewhere.” Camilla's mouth fell open and she stared at Titus Cassius?

“He is alive?” she whispered, “but he was dead, his face was full of blood and there was no life in him.”

“He faked his death,” Titus Cassius explained, “he had to operate in secret under the Emperor's instructions and could tell no one of his subterfuge. I did not know either.”

“I dare say his beloved slave knew,” Camilla flared in a jealous temper, “I'll wager he knew that his Master wasn't dead! But to deceive his own wife...” here she trailed off folornly.

“Formosus knew nothing, no one did,” Titus Cassius replied impatiently, “but speaking of deception...”

“The child is my husband's!” Camilla shrilled.

“I doubt it, and so do you,” Titus Cassius answered, “and I would be surprised if the child wasn't born several weeks later than it would be if it were my friend's. But hear me out. Quintus is a fair man, and he knows that you were deeply disappointed by your marriage. He offers you this as compensation: You agree to dissolve the marriage with him and he will buy you a house and pay you an allowance until the end of your life so that you can live in comfort however you choose to. You are free to remarry, perhaps the man who is the father of your child. The money you brought into the marriage stays yours of course, and it is a large sum. You do not have to decide immediately. Think about it. All my friend asks is that you are decided by the time he comes home, in two days time.” Titus Cassius got up and went to the door. Camilla leapt to her feet and took him by the arm.

“I agree,” she said quietly, “Quintus Aelius is a good man, but his heart was never mine. I would like to marry a man who truly loves me. Unrequited love has made a bitter and vindictive woman of me. Tell Quintus I am very grateful and will move to whichever house he hooses for me.” Titus Cassius smiled broadly.

“Then I suggest you and I set about finding one immediately, Quintus has asked me to help you find a suitable abode, and it might be easier for both of you if you were not here when he arrives home.”

*

“Fatui, servi stupidi,” Quintus cursed, “idiotae, illi duo caudeces !” In the farthermost corner of the warehouse he could see his luggage, pushed into a dark recess. It was too heavy for him to manage alone, he would have to call two of the slaves from the boat to fetch it. Growling under his breath, he walked over to see whether the things had been opened or damaged, or anything stolen. He bent down to look. Everything seemed perfectly in order. Before he could rise he felt his arms gripped on either side and the sharp edge of a knife on the back of his neck. He tried to struggle, then a voice he knew but couldn't quite place said: “Either you stop struggling or I will cut through your spine.” Quintus stilled, trying to remember where he had heard that voice before. “What a nice surprise to find you here alone and unaccompanied,” the voice continued, “I expected your darling Celt to be at your side. No matter, it will be cosier this way. Pull him upright and turn him around.”

Quintus felt himself roughly jerked upright, then turned to face the owner of the voice. It was the Egyptian trader he had befriended in the hope of gaining some information on Formosus' whereabouts, and who he had flung against the statue when he had accosted Formosus.  
“Such a fine example of Roman virility,” the Egyptian said, and Quintus remembered his name was Unnufer, “I believe I owe you something.” The tall, thickset men on either side of him tightened their grip on his arms while Unnufer swung his fist and punched Quintus in the stomach. Momentarily winded, Quintus doubled up and groaned. “There, now we have that out of the way we can decide what to do with you,” Unnufer gloated.

“Let me go,” Quintus gritted, still unable to catch his breath.

“No, my handsome young Roman,” the Egyptian let his fingers run through Quintus' curls, then down to his shoulder to wrench off the brooch holding his toga, “first I want to see what a fine catch I have made, and then I think I will take you home. I have a certain fondness for beautiful men,” Unnufer peeled the toga off Quintus shoulders, bearing his chest, “and you are a fine specimen.”

“You disgust me,” Quintus growled.

“Good,” Unnufer smiled, pinching one of the Roman's nipples, “disgust is nearly as good as fear. And I will teach you to feel that, too.”

“The Emperor will have you put to death!” Quintus roared, trying to writhe out of the grip of the Egyptian's guards.

“The Emperor is in Rome, and will never find out where you have gone. I will keep your for a while until I tire of you, then, when you are sufficiently trained, I will sell you as a slave, somewhere far away from Rome, where neither your Emperor nor your pretty coward of a slave will ever find you. I will say this for you, Roman, you are not easily scared.”

“I will kill you!” Quintus blurted as the Egyptian's hand strayed between his legs.

“I will tie you,” Unnufer told him in a low voice, “I will penetrate you until you can no longer scream. Then I will let all my men have their way with you. We will see if you still threaten me then. I will make a good little slave of you yet.” Unnufer laughed, and Quintus looked at him, horrified. Suddenly one of the men holding him made a gargling noise, Quintus thought he was laughing but as he watched, bright red blood trickled from his open mouth and he crumpled, releasing his grip on Quintus, and falling to the floor. Then he felt the other man's hand fall away from his arm, and as he glanced over, saw that the second guard too was falling to the floor. Puzzled, he looked up at Unnufer who was staring open-mouthed at the fallen men, both of whom appeared to be bleeding from a wound in the back. Then he saw Formosus' tall figure loom up behind the Egyptian, and watched his long fingers wrap around the trader's neck. The Celt's large, yellow and green eyes were fixed on Quintus as he tightened his grip and Quintus saw Unnufer gasp for air, then thrash, then his eyes seemed to try to burst out of their sockets while his mouth opened in a silent plea. His head fell to one side and his eyes rolled back in a lifeless stare. Formosus released the Egyptian's neck and the man fell to the ground. Gently he rearranged the folds of Quintus toga, picked up the fallen brooch and clasped it in place.

“You saved me,” Quintus whispered, “thank you. I did not know that you could kill like that.”  
“I grew up in war-torn Britannia,” Formosus answered quietly, “I learned to kill at an early age.”

“We have never spoken of that time,” Quintus said as they slowly made their way out of the warehouse and towards the boat.

“I couldn't,” Formosus returned, “there were too many ghosts. But they have gone now and have left my dreams, I do not need them to protect me anymore. They have gone on to the Otherworld, or maybe to the House of Song and Light.” Quintus frowned.

“I do not comprehend your meaning,” he said.

“It doesn't matter,” Formosus smiled, “let's go home.”


	41. Chapter 41

“The sun is shining,” Formosus said, “it is a beautiful day, perhaps you would like to sit outside for a while.” Although late autumn, the air was mild and soft, the sun casting a golden light over the pine and olive trees. Quintus was sitting in his chair by the window, looking outside at the garden as he always did.

“I fear it is too much of an effort for me,” he answered sadly, “but I am happy sitting here in my chair, and when you are not in the room I can look at your statue outside. Do you remember how angry you were when I forced you to model for it?” Formosus laughed, and sat down in the chair opposite Quintus.

“I thought you only cared about my looks,” he recalled, “and that you would get rid of me as soon as I got older. I was jealous of the statue.” The Roman turned to look at him.

“I would never have sent you away, for whatever reason,” Quintus smiled, “and I still greatly prefer the real thing.” He reached out to take Formosus' hand.

“I am old,” Formosus growled resentfully, but he took the other man's hand in his own.

“I am older,” Quintus teased, “what does it matter? We have a long life together to look back on. And what times we had! And so many dear friends to brighten them.”

“They are all dead,” Formosus sighed, his melancholy nature reasserting itself, “Titus Cassius and Tiro died years ago, Marcus, Bandak, Junius, and last year Aulus.”

“But many new ones are alive,” Quintus contradicted, my nephew Brutus, his wife Cassiopeia and their children, and Camilla's daughter Livia, her husband Gaius and their children, who are a constant source of delight.” Formosus smiled tightly.

“And you are still here,” Formosus nodded, “to share my old age with me.”

“I will always be where you are,” Quintus murmured, “remember that. Call Maia, I think I would like to go out into the garden after all. I feel a little stronger now. Have her set a chair in my usual place.”

“You only want to stare at the statue,” Formosus grumbled, “you do like it more than you like me.”

“Only you,” Quintus laughed, “only you could possibly be jealous of a marble statue of yourself.” Chuckling to himself, Quintus shook his head and watched Formosus leave the room in search of their freedwoman Maia, who had been their constant companion since they had brought her back from Alexandria with them, over fifty years ago. An elderly woman now, she was still convinced that Formosus was in fact the divine Adonis, and that after his death he would head straight to Olympus, taking his lover with him.

Formosus was eighty, but he was still as straight and slender as he had been as a young man. His hair, which was grey but threaded with wisps of chestnut, was thick and as unruly as it had been when he was young. His expressive golden eyes still fascinated Quintus as they had when he had first seen them, wide with terror, by the camp-fire in Britannia. He was still beautiful, and he still occasionally sat for sculptors, friends they had met through Marcus, when they needed a reference for a older godlike image.  
“It's bad enough that Maia still thinks I am an aged Adonis,” Formosus had complained to Quintus, “but now people stop me in the street and ask me if I realise that I look like Jupiter, there are so many statues of him dotted around Rome that bear my features.” Quintus laughed at that, he knew that deep down inside, Formosus' vanity was greatly flattered.

Quintus was eighty-eight, his curls were still mainly black, his face as proud and regal as it had always been, but it had softened with age. He had found a great source of pleasure watching his nephew growing up, and, more unexpectedly, being included in the upbringing of Camilla's daughter, who looked very much like the Centurion that Camilla married after she had separated from Quintus. Camilla was absurdly grateful to Quintus for his kindness, and Livia doted on her adopted uncle. Many of their days were spent surrounded by family and friends, and Quintus mellowed a great deal because of it.  
Formosus' naturally kind and gentle nature endeared him to children and adults alike, he never seemed to lose his calm and was invariably good-natured.  
“Disgustingly nice,” Junius always said to him, Junius never lost his sharp tongue, or his pretty face, and only Aulus could keep him in check. When Titus Cassius died at the ripe old age of eighty-two, Formosus was afraid that Junius would die too, but Aulus watched over his lover steadfastly and gently coaxed him back into life. They spent many more years after that, jointly and gleefully abusing poor Marcus, now an extremely successful artist, despite Bandak's efforts to protect him from the couple's caustic wit.

When Junius died, Aulus came to live with Quintus and Formosus for a while. He became confused in his old age, imagining himself back in the employment of the Emperor as a praetorian guard, and patrolling the garden. He would lean against the wall of the kitchen as he had used to lean against the Servian Wall when on duty in Rome, and accost passers by jokingly. He died only a year after Junius, relieved, it seemed, to pass on to wherever his beloved companion had gone to.  
It was with great difficulty that Maia and Formosus, with the help of one of the servants, managed to get Quintus settled in his chair in the garden. The sun bathed him in a golden light, and when he smiled at him, Formosus could almost imagine his face as a young man. His eyes strayed to the statue of Quintus that Marcus had sculpted, it was a beautiful likeness and still made Formosus ache with longing. He leaned down to kiss Quintus' temple and left him to contemplate the beautiful garden and the statues. The only thing they had added to the garden was a square pool of water, Quintus had insisted that it would reflect the statues and add to their appeal, and after much resistance, Formosus had agreed.  
For many years, Quintus and Formosus had travelled. They had visited the library in Alexandria, and they had made the perilous journey across Parthia to Susa to see Tiro and Narses. The Satrap of Susa, King Shapur as he now was, had initially been cool, but over time he warmed to his visitors, especially to Quintus, with whom he would discuss and argue politics all night while imbibing large quantities of wine. Tiro and Formosus spoke many times of life, death and the after-life, and these conversations helped Formosus to handle the news of Tiro's death, when it came by messenger all the way from Susa. He knew Tiro had believed that he would pass over the bridge to the House of Song and Light, and would be reunited with his son and wife, who he missed so sorely. Formosus knew that Tiro had died with a happy heart, as Narses had some years earlier.  
When Quintus had suggested they travel to Britannia, Formosus had been unsure. Too many ghosts, too many memories haunted the place of his birth. His dreams and nightmares had stopped, he felt as if the shapes and shadows of the past and gone on to a place where they were at peace. He was afraid of reawakening them. But they made the journey, and it was heartbreaking, because barely a soul had survived of those he had known and loved in the land of the Iceni. But there was one positive outcome: Against Junius wishes Formosus searched for his mother and found her, still alive and distraught over the loss of her son. He could inform her that her son was alive and well, and the following year, Junius and Aulus journeyed to Britannia to see her. Quintus and Formosus didn't visit Britannia again, and Formosus laid his anger and pain at the plight of his people to rest.  
Formosus wrote about his travels, and many who learned of his diary through Quintus were interested in hearing about the places they most likely would never see for themselves. Romans were still not welcome in Parthia, and the only Romans to have entered Susa for the past centuries had been Roman soldiers, intent on destruction. The original scrolls of Formosus' notes were submitted to the Library in Alexandria, where they were kept carefully sealed for scholars to peruse at their leisure. Formosus was inordinately proud that there was something he had written at the Great Library, although he pretended that he was not particularly bothered.  
It was time for their midday meal, Formosus had helped Maia prepare for it, they were close friends and companions despite Maia's continued assertions about Formosus and his immortal origins. Quintus was still sitting in his chair, his head laid back and looking up at the statue of his beloved friend. Formosus called him gently as he walked over to him, sometimes Quintus was so lost in thought that he jumped when Formosus suddenly appeared. He drifted off like that more and more as time went by.  
Quintus didn't react, so Formosus called his name again. The Roman just kept staring at the statue. Dread formed in the pit of Formosus' stomach, and he broke into a run.  
“Quintus,” he sobbed, “love of my life.” The wide, staring eyes were unblinking, and he knew that Quintus had left him. Calm came over Formosus and he knelt down by Quintus' side as he had always loved to do, laying his head on Quintus' lap and placing his lover's still-warm hand on his own head. Maia found him like that, tears streaming quietly down his face.

Quintus was buried in the garden at the villa, and Formosus was inconsolable. Nothing either Livia or Brutus and their families could say or do could distract him from his grief. He refused to leave the villa and come and live with them. A few weeks later, Maia found him in the same chair that Quintus had used to sit in, in the garden, staring up at the statue of Quintus, his eyes lifeless. When she saw the smile on his face, she knew he had been reunited with the man he had loved for almost all his life.


	42. Chapter 42

Roberta rolled her eyes. “Not another one,” she groaned. That was what she got for spending her Summer holidays in Italy with a history nut who happened to be her best friend. “We've just spent four hours in Hadrian's villa, what's left of it.”

“One and a half,”Jenna corrected, looking over her glasses at her sternly. She was training to be a teacher and Roberta could imagine that Jenna's disapproving looks would come in handy when dealing with a class full of adolescents. Then Jenna smiled. Roberta never could resist that smile. “But this one is really interesting, it says here,” she thumbed her well-worn traveller's guide that always seemed to be by her side, Roberta could have sworn that she slept with it under her pillow, “it says here that this is one of the smaller, but most romantic of the villas in Tivoli.”

“I'm hungry,” Roberta grumbled, “can't we have lunch first? I saw the most adorable Trattoria on the way up.”

“Later,” Jenna said firmly as she threaded her arm through Roberta's and led the way to what looked to Roberta to be just another pile of stones.

The foundations of the house were still visible, together with some parts of the mosaics that had decorated the floors, now covered with glass to protect them from the elements. Some of the walls were still standing and even Roberta could feel a strange sense of the past seep into her consciousness, more than she had felt in the Forum Romanum or the Circus Maximus in Rome, where they had already spent five days traipsing through Roman remains, five days that Roberta would rather have spent in the expensive but beautiful Roman shops and boutiques.  
“Can you feel it?” Jenna whispered as they carefully wandered around the house.

“No,” Roberta lied, but she could. For the first time since they had come to Italy, she understood what it was that drew her friend to the silent witnesses of the Roman Empire's past glory, and gained a sense of the people who lived, loved and died there almost two thousand years ago.

“If we go around the back of the house,” Jenna continued, Roberta's arm still entwined with her own, “we should see something that will entertain even you.”  
“Lead on,” Roberta said, looking at the garden that must have been lovely once, indeed it still was, bathed in sunlight, the half-ruined ornamental arches impossibly beautiful against the backdrop of dark green pine-trees, with the smell of wild oregano, rosemary and thyme heavy in the air. “Look,” Jenna whispered and pointed. There was a small, square pool, the water was green and covered in lilies, but Roberta knew that wasn't what her friend meant. On the other side of the pool, lazily reflected in in the water, perfect and so real in the hazy sunlight that for a moment Roberta thought they were alive, were the statues of two naked men. The women walked silently around the pool to stare at the marble couple.

“Who are they?” Roberta caught herself whispering as if afraid to disturb the stone images. With an effort Jenna tore her eyes away from the statues, and consulted her guide book.

“This one on the right,” she pointed to the slightly shorter of the two, the features were hardly weathered and the proud, handsome face was clearly visible, “is the son of the man who built the villa as a holiday retreat from Rome. His name was Quintus Aelius Aurelius, he was Senator and Censor in Rome and special envoy of the Emperor Vespasian, apparently he foiled a plot on the Emperor's life. He was also a soldier in his younger days, it says here that he fought in Britannia.”

“He looks like a soldier,” Roberta dropped her voice, “nice body,” she added.

“I thought you might like him,” Jenna smiled. They moved to the other statue.

“Who is he?” Roberta asked, “he's really tall, and well, he's beautiful.” She put out her hand to touch his leg but drew it back again. It would have seemed irreverent.

“This is Quintus' freedman, that means he was his slave but he set him free. Freedmen or Freedwomen stayed closely attached to their old master, who usually protected them and made them part of the family, in return the freedmen and -women were loyal to their patrons and often worked for them. In this case though,” Jenna looked up from the guide book she had been reading aloud from, “they may have been very close friends, or lovers even.”

“Like Hadrian and Antinuous,” Roberta added. “I suppose we don't know the freedman's name?”

“Actually, we do,” Jenna rejoined, “his name was Formosus but he also had the Brythonic name Elisedd. Formosus would have been his slave name, it means beautiful.”

“Which he is,” Roberta interrupted.

“The sculptor might have flattered him a little,” Jenna smiled, “there are many more of this particular artist's statues in Rome, unfortunately his name has not been preserved, but he was a very popular sculptor at the time it seems.”

“Well, they are beautiful statues,” Roberta agreed, “and so well preserved.”

“These are copies, the originals are in the National Museum at Rome, if you are interested. You wanted to give that one a miss, if you remember.” Jenna jogged her friend's elbow.

“So I did,” Roberta answered slowly. “Does your clever little book have anything further to say about these two?”

“It does actually,” Jenna thumbed through the pages, “they travelled extensively, always together. They went to Alexandria a few times, which isn't so unusual, it was part of the Roman Empire at that time. But they also went to Britannia, perhaps Formosus wanted to visit his birthplace. With that name he must have come from there originally.”

“If Formosus was a Briton and Quintus was a soldier in Britannia, that might have been where they met,” Roberta mused.

“Possibly,” Jenna nodded, “this is interesting, they went to Susa, a great city in Parthia; several times it seems. Very unusual.”

“Why?” Roberta leaned over Jenna's shoulder to read the travel guide.

“Because the Romans were constantly at war with the Parthians, Susa was sacked and destroyed by the Romans many times, but this apparently was an unprecedented period of peace. Who knows why they went there. We know all this,” Jenna looked up from her travel guide, “because Formosus actually kept some sort of journal about their travels. It was very well regarded and often quoted by other writers.”

“That is one thing I would read,” Roberta rejoined, “I'd love to know why they travelled so far afield.”

“Well you can't unfortunately, so I suppose we'll never know.” Jenna shrugged. “The only copies of his travelogue were kept at the Great Library at Alexandria.”

“So?” Roberta demanded.

“It was burned down with all it's immeasurably precious contents in the year 391. Including, it seems, Formosus' diary. Such a pity. It says here that the two of them are buried in this garden, although no one knows where.” Jenna snapped her travel guide shut.

Roberta tore her eyes away from the statues and turned to look around the garden.  
“I bet they are buried there,” she said suddenly, pointing to two pine-trees set close together, their branches tightly intertwined.

“I don't think those pine trees are two thousand years old,” Jenna joked, but her voice was soft. Come on, we should go and have some lunch, and then a walk around Tivoli.” She turned to go, and Roberta followed her. She couldn't understand why her eyes had misted up all of a sudden.

Leaving by the gate, they passed a man leaning against one of the remaining walls, smiling at them suggestively and winking. He was tall and athletic in build, with almost blond hair and pale eyes that caught the light.  
“Ciao ragazzi,” he grinned cheekily at them.

“Ciao,” Jenna answered with a smile. He was really quite good-looking.

“Very handsome,” Roberta muttered, glad to have something else to think about, “he's very blond for an Italian.”

“The northern Italians are often blond, they claim to be descended from the Etruscans,” Jenna explained, going into full school teacher mode, “perhaps he is from Tuscany.”

“I wonder what he was doing there,” Roberta mused as they walked down the hill towards the waterfall, “perhaps he is a curator or a caretaker. He looked as if he were guarding that place.”

“Yes, a guard,” Jenna said, “that's just what he looked like to me.”


End file.
